


Do You Want The Bite? And I'll Take That As A Yes, As You're Lying To Yourself Anyway.

by CescaLR



Series: Would You Like To Change Your Nature? Too Bad. It's Gonna Happen Anyway. [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (sorry sorry trying not to bash here), AU, Character Death, Code Breaker - Freeform, Complete, F/M, Gen, Hurt!Stiles, Major Character Injury, Not Completely Useless!Jackson Whittemore, Season 1, So yeah, a "What if Peter didn't have his moment of caring whether or not people gave consent", and it's canonical, blood warning, but it's Uncle Creeper Hale so it's fine, but the man powers through it, episode 12, kay? cool., kinda thing, umm, warnings for season 2 apply
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2018-08-14 08:05:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8005042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles was pretty certain Peter never liked anyone, and it was very bad for you if he did. He was also pretty certain that Peter Hale, Mr. Uncle Creeper himself, really did not give a damn whether or not you gave conset to be turned into a werewolf or not.<br/>So why, all of a sudden, was the man asking for his consent? Stiles doesn't know. Which, to be frank, means he's probably going to be bitten anyway.<br/>So. Well.<br/>Damn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do You Want The Bite?

“Do you want the bite?”

Stiles stared at the older man, unblinking and a little confused. _Doesn’t he just… give people the 'gift' no matter their consent?_

“What?” he managed.

Hale repeated himself, seemingly annoyed. “Do you. Want. The _bite_?”

He stayed silent, for a moment, in consideration despite the voice screaming _no, no no no no ~~yes~~ _ in his head.

The alpha werewolf continued. “If it doesn’t kill you, and it could… you become like us.”

There was a pause, before Stiles replied, “Like you…?”

It took less than a second for Peter to reply, honestly annoyed at how slow the human was seemingly being. “Yes. A werewolf.” He added, “Would you like me to draw you a picture?”

He took a step forwards. Stiles made no effort to move, still as was possible. He spoke again, “That first night in the woods I took Scott because I needed a new pack.” Continuing, he then pointed out, “it could have easily been you. You’d be every bit as powerful as him…” Stiles tuned him out. _No thank you, you aren’t persuading me via Scott. Nope._ He listened, the same expression on his face as before. “…Watching him get the girl.” Stiles looked to the side, down and the swallowed. _Nope, no thanks I don’t want it._ “You’d be equals.” There was a pause. “Maybe more.” _Maybe more what does he mean by ‘maybe more’-_ Peter reached forwards and took his right arm, and Stiles did nothing to stop it, his eyes following the movement. “Yes, or no?”

_Seriously though why does he care about consent right now he didn’t before, not for Scott not for Lydia-_

Stiles said nothing, and did nothing, and Peter didn’t move, just left the question floating in the air. _Yes, or no?_

_He really wants me to answer, doesn’t he? Well, tough luck._

“No.” He said, finally, after a long pause. “I don’t want to be like you.”

Peter lowered his arm, but didn’t let go, the visible teeth returning to human ones. He turned his head slightly. “Do you know what I heard just then?” He asked, rhetorically. “Your heart beating slightly faster over the words _I. Don’t. Want.”_ There was a pause, in which Stiles gulped slightly. _Well shit._ “You may believe what you’re telling me but you _are_ lying to yourself.” There was a pause, in which the only sounds Stiles could hear were breathing. _That isn’t good. Can you just please not bite that would be good, thanks._ “And since your heartbeat is telling me what your words aren’t…” Stiles’ eyes widened a fraction. _No, nononono. No._ Peter sighed. “I was hoping not to have to ignore consent again, but as it seems…” There was a short pause, and before Stiles could wrench his arm free from the Alpha’s grip, the Werewolf’s head had turned, and time seemed to slow as teeth changed to fangs and buried themselves into his wrist. White hot pain coursed through his system because of where he’d been bitten, and a little while later that seemed like eternity, he knew no more.

* * *

 

Peter stared impassively, as the boy slumped over unconscious. He held onto the teen’s wrist so that he wouldn’t crash to the floor and possibly break his fragile human skull open, which would remove the backup plan he’d chosen by scratching Lydia Martin and biting this particular Stilinski. With a sigh, he took the keys to the jeep - which wasn’t in a very good state he could tell (since out of curiosity, he’d opened the hood and seen a fair amount of problems just from a short glance) - and used them to open the boot. He took note of the small space, and that it was filled with things that would bring concern to the boy’s father since he doesn’t know anything useful. Yet.

There were the usual things, like a box of tools for the car, like wrenches and such things, but there was also more than one half empty first aid kit, a fair few, and by a fair he means what medical professionals would probably consider to be far too many but he doesn’t really care about, empty Adderall bottles and different brands and strengths of anxiety-related medication, most probably not prescribed. Also, there was a single wooden baseball bat that seemed unused for baseball yet had definitely seen better days.

He decided the boot wasn’t going to be where he’d put Stiles, considering that there was no space, and he put him in the backseat. The keys in hand he locked the car so that the boy couldn’t interfere, then crushed them in his hands. He threw them under the car, and walked back to the one he’d stolen, and drove off to the place Stiles had shown him.

He ignored the smell of the dead woman in the boot, but decided it would be a good idea to dispose of her before others could smell it as well.

* * *

 

It didn’t take too long for Stiles to wake, and when he recognised the interior of his jeep and the lack of any other person he relaxed, for a moment, before frantically searching for his phone.

Staring at his contacts, he stopped still, wondering who’d be available to – to do pretty much _anything,_ and who’d have a decent enough car.

He paused at one of the most recently created contacts, under the simple moniker of ‘jerk’, and decided then, that humiliation was worth saving his friends.

* * *

 

He was honestly surprised at the lack of humiliation, but Stiles wasn’t going to complain, and the drive to the hospital was quick and silent. (stiles had grabbed his keys from under the jeep, and hoped beyond hope that it’d still be there once he’d gotten them replaced). Jackson’s expression was faux impassive, but Stiles could see the confusion and concern for Lydia underneath his rather terrible mask.

* * *

 

Once they got to the hospital, Stiles practically sprinted to where Lydia was, and just after he’d caught a glimpse of her, lying unconscious in the hospital bed, he was grabbed by his dad. Jackson stood off to the side, a little wary but mostly just staring at his ex and the state she was in.

His dad pushed him back, and spoke to him angrily, pointing at Stiles. “You know what? It's good that we're in a hospital, because I'm gonna kill you!” Stiles stuttered, and made a half truthful excuse. “I’m – I’m sorry, I lost the keys to my jeep; I had to – call him” he gestured with his left arm, carefully keeping his right down so the jacket sleeve wouldn’t move enough to show the bite.

(Jackson, for once, had ignored it, and stiles had grabbed his jacket which was in the back, on the floor between the seats before leaving his jeep.)

“He drove us here, fast as possible-”

The sheriff yelled, interrupting his son. “Stiles, I don’t _care_!” stiles grimaced, a little angry but gone in an instant, as his concern and fear for Lydia took over. “Is she gonna be okay?” He took a deep breath, and his face showed only worry. The sheriff turned to look at Lydia, the fight seemingly gone out of him for the time being. He sighed, as he turned back, and his eyes closed for a moment. He shook his head then looked at his son, and admitted quietly, “They don’t know.”

Jackson heard this, and interrupted, loudly, whatever the Sheriff was going to say next. “What do you _mean_ , they don’t know? Isn’t that their job?” He’d turned, glaring at the cop, but all he got in return was a look of sadness and slight pity, and the sheriff continued, addressing the both of them. “It’s partially because they don’t know what happened. She – She lost a lot of blood but there’s somethin’ else going on with her.”

Jackson stayed quiet, and Stiles spoke, stuttering, worried and scared. “What… - What do you mean?” He took another breath. The sheriff sounded confused as he continued, explaining the situation. “The doctors say it's like she's having an allergic reaction. Her body keeps going into shock.”

There was a pause, and his dad’s tone became questioning. “Did you see anything? I mean, do you have any idea who, or what attacked her?”

There was silence, as Jackson looked on expectantly and the sheriff waited for an answer. Stiles breathed, in then out, and swallowed, before lying his face off. “No” he breathed, quite convincingly. Then insistent “No, I’ve no idea.” He shook his head. The sheriff nodded. “What about Scott?” Stiles let out a huff of air. “What do you mean, what about him?” “Did he see anything?” Sheriff Stilinski questioned. “What d- is he _not here?”_ Stiles seemed surprised, and Jackson shook his head. “He hasn’t been here. It – It’s just me… and Lydia. And the Sheriff.” They looked at him, and he shrugged uncomfortably, then wandered over to the windows and stared at Lydia. The Stilinskis continued their conversation. “What are you talking about?” The Sheriff asked him. “I- I’ve been calling him on his cellphone – I’ve gotten no response.” Stiles looked down, then at Jackson, who shrugged but stayed eavesdropping on the conversation.

“Y- You’re not gonna get one.” Stiles admitted, slightly terrified but hiding it.

_Derek has his phone. Scott has nothing._

Sheriff sighed, and took his son’s shoulder, beckoning Jackson over with his free hand. “Stiles, Jackson – just, go wait in the waiting room, alright?” Stiles lifted his shoulder and shook his head, as Jackson turned his to stare back at Lydia’s room. “Dad, just tell me. You know this has something to do with Derek.” Jackson’s head snapped in their direction. The Sheriff stopped their movement, and looked around, then at the two of them. “Wha-“, he looked around again. “I – I thought you and Scott said you barely know him?” he gestured, pointing his finger at Stiles then at himself. Stiles lifted his arms and dropped them to his side, and the Sheriff glanced at Jackson as he snorted in derision. “Alright, we might know him a little better ‘n that.” He admitted. The sheriff looked behind him, then grabbed his son by the back of his neck, and Stiles morphed his expression into one of pain. Jackson followed behind them. “Ow”, stiles muttered as his dad spoke. “You do realise that I’m elected to this job, right?” Stiles straightened up and spoke quickly. “And if I help you figure this out you’ll be re-elected. Am I right?” He stated then asked, and his dad stared at him. “Dad, come on.” They stopped moving, and Jackson leant against the wall. His dad let go of his neck “You know what? That girl in there – Lydia Martin - has got nothing to do with a six - year - old arson case.” Stiles reached out and grabbed his dad to stop him from moving “Wa- When did you decide it was definitely arson?” He demanded, and his dad replied. “When we got a key witness.” Stiles moved and his dad spoke, annoyed “And no, I’m not telling you who it is, but yeah, yeah, we know it's arson. And it was probably organized by a young woman.” “What young woman?” Stiles questioned, an idea forming. The sheriff replied, annoyed and a little frustrated, “If I knew that, she'd be in jail.” “Was she young then, or is she young now?” he asked his father. The Sheriff replied “She's probably in her late 20s. Oh, I gotta grab this call.” “You don't know her name?” Stiles asked, bewildered. Sheriff replied, more than a little annoyed now. “No, I don't - What is this? 20 questions? All we know is that she had a very distinctive - What do you call it - a pendant.” “What the hell's a pendant?” Stiles asked, frustrated. “Do you go to school? A pendant! A pendant! It's a necklace. Now, can I answer the phone?” His dad replied, also frustrated, then asked. Stiles, having gotten all the information he needed, replied, “Yes.”

The man walked off, speaking into the phone as stiles turned in the opposite direction heading towards the exit. _Gotta find Scott. I know who did it._ Jackson moved forwards and grabbed his shoulder. Stiles reflexively wrenched it from his grip, spun ‘round and glared at him. “What?” He snapped. _I don’t have time for your shit, Jackson. “_ I know for a fact you don’t have a car so wherever you’re going in such a hurry you won’t get there on time.” He replied, as annoyed as Stiles was by the fact they were conversing at all. “I’m aware of that. Thank you” He retorted, sarcastically. Jackson spoke, almost softly. “Here, look, I’ll drive, come on-” Stiles interrupted him, snapping. “Look, just because you feel guilty all of a sudden doesn't make it okay, all right? Half of this is still your fault.” A little offended, and a fair bit annoyed at some of the truth in that exaggeration, he retorted. “And some of its yours.” Jackson sighed. “Look, Stilinski. I have a car, and by the state of your keys you aren’t gonna be able to drive yours for a good while. So. Do you want help, or not?” He asked, and Stiles was annoyed that it was reasonable, that he could see the logic in it.

Doesn’t mean he was going to be _nice_ about it though. It was still Jackson.

Stiles twisted his mouth annoyed, and nodded, sharply and only once. “Fine. But I’m driving.” “what- why?” Stiles rolled his eyes. “Sheriffs son mean anything to you? I don’t have any driving tickets.” Jackson nodded, then froze, staring at something behind him. Stiles spun around quickly, then blanched at the sight of Argent himself and some lackeys blocking the hallway to the entrance. “Boys” Chris said, his threatening smile plastered on his face as per usual. “I was hoping you could tell me where Scott McCall was?”

Stiles faltered, staring at the unconcealed weapons the others were holding. “I – I haven’t seen him since the dance.” He elbowed Jackson, not caring how obviously he did it. “I – I –”, Jackson stuttered.

“ _Oh,_ for the love of god-”

“let’s try this again.” Argent said, hand on his pistol. “Where’s Scott McCall?”

Neither of them answered, and Allison’s dad gestured to his men. “Grab them.” Faster than the boys could run, one of the men lifted his weapon, and the other two grabbed them, and Chris lead the way to an unoccupied room that had a bed in it. They were thrown onto it face first, and the door was locked as the two of them scrambled on the inflatable bed into a sitting position.

Chris leaned forwards, and in the darkness he was somehow more terrifying, if that was even possible.

“Let’s try again. Where is Scott McCall?” He demanded, saying each word slowly, leaning forwards and glaring at the both of them. “I-I don’t know” Jackson near babbled, terrified for himself and staring at the assorted firearms the men had. Chris nodded, calmly, then grabbed Stiles by his front and threw him up against a wall, pinning him in place.

“Let me ask you a question, Stiles. Have you ever seen a rabid dog?” His voice was almost calm, but too loud to be quite convincing enough. Stiles retorted “No. I could put it on my to - do - list, if you just let me go.” Chris continued, seemingly ignoring him. “Well, I have. And the only thing I've ever been able to compare it to is seeing a friend of mine turn on a full moon. Do you wanna know what happened?” Stiles replied, “Not really, considering I have experience of that. No offense to your storytelling skills.” Chris blinked and continued, ignoring Stiles’ side note. “He tried to kill me-” Stiles interrupted him. “Yeah, and Scott tried to kill me. You don’t see his grave round here anywhere, and I’m still around. That sort of thing doesn’t have to end in any death, you know.” Chris paused, and stared at him. He continued, slowly. “…and I was forced-” Stiles interrupted again. “Okay, look – you weren’t _‘forced’_ to do anything, Argent. I sprayed him with a fire extinguisher and he was fine. The next time he just went for a romp in the woods, until you shot him out if it. It’s honestly not as bad as you make it out to be, jeez.” Chris waited until he was finished, then marched on. “I was _forced_ to put a bullet in his head. The whole while that he lay there dying, he was still trying to claw his way toward me, still trying to kill me, like it was the most important thing he could do with his last breath. Can you imagine that?” Stiles replied, certain. “No. And it sounds like you need to be a little bit more select –” Chris interrupted him. “Did Scott try to kill you on the full moon? Did you have to lock him up?” Stiles answered, annoyed. “Yeah, he did. And yeah, I did. Which I’ve already told you not two seconds ago, by the way. So yeah, I had to handcuff him to a radiator. Why? Would you prefer I locked him in the basement and burned the whole house down around him?” Stiles demanded, knowingly, glaring angrily at the older man, countenance defiant. Chris lifted a finger in silence, and closed it into his fist and smiled, looking amused, before becoming serious. “I hate to dispel a popular rumor, Stiles, but we never did that.” _He sounds so certain… oh man._ “Oh, right. Derek said you guys had a code. I guess no one ever breaks it.” He suggested, implanting doubt into Chris’ mind. Chris spoke. “Never.”, though this time he didn’t seem so certain. “What if someone does?” Stiles asked. Chris replied, curiosity winning out. “Someone like who?” Stiles landed the bombshell at the perfect moment to do so, and knew he had him. “Your sister.”

Chris and his goons had left the room shortly after, (thankfully he had been in too much of a hurry to notice the glaringly obvious blood on stiles’ arm and dripping onto the floor below him) throwing Jackson back on the bed and letting Stiles drop from the wall, him stumbling a bit but staying up. They looked at each other for a moment, before Jackson threw his keys at Stiles and they sprinted off after the Argents.

* * *

Contrary to what most thought, Stiles was a very good driver, he just didn’t have the best car (mainly because they’d splurged on the roll cage, so if it got knocked over he wouldn’t be crushed dead.). He knew the roads of the town as well as was possible, and so he realised where the Argents were going not long after they’d started chasing them. Realising that for where they were going, they’d need some protection, Stiles thought for a split second before taking a right, driving towards the school. “Where are we going?” Jackson demanded. “Aren’t we supposed to be following Allison’s crazy Father?” “I know where they’re off to.” Stiles replied, eyes on the road and taking a sharp left where he shouldn’t have taken one. “We’re going to the school, and this time, you’re not going to mess up the bombs because I will kill you if you do, jackass.” Stiles sounded deadly serious, and Jackson gulped. _Would he?_ He spoke, steady as he could but not quite enough, still shaken up from their earlier encounter with the Argent, one that seem to have affected Stiles not at all – in fact, once Chris had left, he’d almost looked triumphant for a minute. He blinked when they took a left rather than a right, and opened his mouth to ask what the fuck was the route they were taking. Stiles anticipated this. “It’s faster this way. There aren’t gonna be any cars this route, at least. Cops don’t check ‘round here as often, the camera stopped working last week; Some idiot looped the footage of a day, and no-ones noticed yet.” Jackson nodded, then sat back, silent. Stiles spoke, “Put your seatbelt on idiot; I don’t fancy Lydia eating my head off if you get yourself killed while I’m driving.” Jackson sighed but did as asked; mainly because Lydia’d probably do worse to him than she would to Stilinski if he did survive and she ever found out.

The silence in the car was awkward, until Jackson noticed the blood on stiles’ right hand and the wrist of his jacket. Of course, his first reaction was “What the fuck Stilinski you’re going to get blood all over a _Porsche,_ and why _is your hand and wrist covered in blood,_ Stilinski, _it’s dripping.”_ “Don’t worry yourself Whittemore, it’s only mine.” Jackson rolled his eyes. “One, I don’t care who’s it is, second – _you’re getting it all over my Porsche.”_ Stiles rolled his eyes, still unconcerned. “Pity.” Jackson huffed, then opened his glove compartment and grabbed some bandages, shoving them at Stiles, very much annoyed. “At least have the courtesy not to bleed to death _in my expensive car._ ” Stiles muttered some choice words but grudgingly took the bandages. He parked the car at the entrance to the school, and sat back as he wrapped his wrist in the bandages, and ripped off the ruined lower part of his shirt sleeve. Jackson stared unwillingly at the bite – it wasn’t messy; in fact, it seemed almost deliberately neat, as it avoided all major arteries. It was still bleeding profusely though, and he made a noise of protest as some got on his seat, on his gearbox and pretty much everywhere – he was certain there’d be some on his door. In fact, he just noticed that some had gotten on his hand from when Stilinski shoved it away earlier, which was pretty gross. He grunted in disgust, and wiped it away, grimacing. Stilinski glanced at him with a raised brow, before going back to neatly and expertly wrapping his wrist. Without any tape, the teen simply tied the bandage instead. It was wrapped around his forearm and hand, like a glove but not. He pulled his jacket sleeve down, grimacing when he got even more blood on his left hand.

 _I’m not gonna be able to hide this,_ Stiles grimaced, as he finished tying off the makeshift bandage glove. His front, and some of his trousers were covered in blood – it had even gotten on his skin and his face when he’d accidentally wiped some off of his left hand there. Blinking up at the sun-shade mirror thing that had a name he’d forgotten, he saw the bits of blood on his forehead and his cheek, and remedied his statement.

“There’s no fucking way I’m gonna get rid of all this blood” he muttered, angrily tying some more bandage around his wrist. Once he was done he threw the now bloody roll of bandages onto the floor and smeared blood on the door as he opened it. He got out, and slammed the door behind him, angry. He heard the quieter shutting of the passenger side door, and Jackson came around the car and stood near to him a little distance away.

They stared up at the schools entrance for a moment, then Stiles jogged up the stairs, and Jackson followed a few seconds later. Once they were inside, Stiles took a left up the stairs to the chemistry room, and started taking out the equipment needed to make the Molotov Cocktails. Jackson stood by awkwardly, so Stiles snapped the instructions on how to make them at him. “Oh, and you can’t mess it up because the labels are _on the freaking bottles,_ jackass, so don’t, okay?” Jackson nodded stiffly, then got to work.

The two boys worked in silence. Once they were done, Stiles grabbed a box and they started quickly packing them away. Because of Stiles’ wrist, and because he was driving, Jackson took the box with a “Yeah, I’ll be careful, for fucks sake I don’t want to _blow up_ \- fine, _be on fire,_ Stilinski.”

He nodded, and sprinted (faster than Jackson expected) down to the car. Jackson took longer; not wanting to break the fire bombs, and set fire to himself and the school – but mostly himself – so when he got there Stilinski had the engine already on, and was tapping fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, fidgeting slightly. “’Bout time,” he grumbled, as Jackson got into the car. He’d just managed to close the door before Stilinski drove off, the car at its top speed. They zoomed off towards the preserve, and Jackson suddenly realised what they were doing. “Wait- we’re going to _fight_ those guys?” He exclaimed, louder and more scared sounding than he’d meant it to be. Stiles nodded. “Yeah, jackass.” He sighed, and added, “Look, Whittemore, just – just, and believe me I hate to say this – trust me, for now, okay? And we’re not fighting the Argents – At least, not Chris anyway. Guy named Peter Hale, the Uncle Creeper of the remaining family members. Just – throw the Molotov when I do, at what I do, okay? Don’t think about it. Just – Just do it.” Jackson grimaced at the ‘trust me’ part, ignoring that Stilinski had done the same. “Fine” he bit out, one hand holding the box and one gripped on the door handle. “Alright, whatever Stilinski. Only for Lydia though.” Stiles nodded. “Why else?”

They’d arrived at the entrance to the preserve, and Jackson swallowed. _No going back now._

_I guess I’m a part of this shit._

_For better… or for worse._

* * *

 

Stiles drove a little slower but by no means slowly through the woods, and slammed on the brakes as they arrived at a rather odd scene, at least, by Jackson’s standards.

Stiles didn’t seem so shocked; he just grabbed a Molotov, honked the horn and sprinted out of the car. He threw it, as hard and as fast as he could with his injured arm, but it wasn’t good enough. The… _monster_ caught the bottle before it could shatter, and stared at it, then roared at the boy who’d thrown it. Resigned, Stiles said, “Oh, damn.”

Jackson could see Scott throw Allison a bow, and the girl caught it, stood and shot the Cocktail. It exploded, lighting the thing’s arm on fire, and Jackson took his chance, opened the door (after quickly putting the box down,) grabbed a fire bomb thing on his way out and then threw it at the creature once in range. It exploded on impact, and the being roared in pain as it’s whole body was set alight. It stumbled around as they stared, and it fell over, burned and human, as the fire went out.

Stiles watched, almost passive, as Derek walked over to his uncle, and stared down at him. Stiles was quite a distance away, but he thought he heard the burnt man speak, something like “You’ve already decided”, and with a horrible realisation, Stiles knew Scott wasn’t being cured tonight; maybe not ever.

He knew Derek had lied; had said killing the man who bit you would cure you so he’d have help killing him for revenge – and for power, Stiles understood.

Alpha power transferred to the one who killed the owner.

In retrospect, it was obvious, and he listened to Scott’s pleading – pleading in vain, he knew – with an almost emotionless appearance.

He felt faint, and wondered _how much blood exactly did I lose?_

Jackson was looking everywhere but at the man who pronounced himself as the new ‘alpha’ – whatever that was – and noticed Stilinski fall to the ground. He spotted the bloody sleeve, and remembered that in the chaos he’d forgotten that loosing blood is _very, very bad._ “Shit.” He muttered, and dropped down, grabbing the other’s arm as the people there seemingly were more interested in Allison’s decision to kiss the rather ugly looking Scott – with ridges and more hair than before, fangs and a whole manner of _what the fuck._ He stripped off the bandage and cursed, and for once Chris noticed something was up. He blinked for a second before noticing the injury, then cursed. “Whittemore!” he called. “Get him in that car of yours, now!” Dumbfounded, Scott could only stare at his unconscious best friend as Allison widened her eyes and went to help Jackson get Stiles (who was heavier than one might think) into the back of the Porsche. Allison stared at the bloody interior, and the near empty roll of blood covered bandages on the floor. She got into the back, and Jackson got into the passenger side, as her Father got into the front, then drove; the ignition still on from when the two teens stopped the car earlier. Chris threw the bandages to his daughter, not looking away nor taking his foot off the gas, and Jackson was eerily still. Allison took to cutting Stiles’ sleeves off with an arrow – promising herself she’d buy him a new suit in payment – and winced at the blood-soaked bandages she'd been thrown. Thinking it was important, she asked, “Hey, Jackson – did he get this cleaned or what?” A minute shake of the head was all he gave, the clarified because he realised she may not be able to see that. “No.” he managed, and both Argents cursed, though Allison did so in French. “Well _putain.”_ She muttered, and asked if there was any water. In reply, Jackson handed her his depleted first aid kit, his whiskey flask and a half empty bottle of water.

She got to work.

* * *

 

It only took a few minutes, but she finally had it clean and hopefully the alcohol Jackson had given her had cleared the wound of any infection along with an antiseptic wipe which she hoped did the same – she was worried he hadn’t woken, but there was little she could do and his pulse was still going, if weaker than she’d like.

She’d take what she could get, was the meaning of all that.

Without the blood the bite – because that was what it was, which was worrying and unfortunate, but they’d speak on that later, if he lived – didn’t look so bad; she figured it hadn’t gone through any major arteries, and the marks weren’t big.

Really, it looked quite neat. Not neat as in cool, but carefully done in a certain way to minimize problems.

But he’d still lost a lot of blood, that was certain.

Having done all that she could, Allison put plasters over the individual bite marks and bandaged the whole situation.

It wasn’t too bad, she thought that she’d done a decent enough job.

(Her hands had blood on them; some had even gotten on her front and trousers because of how she’d been holding his arm. And there was nothing she could do for the rest of him; she’d used all she could on his arm. There was still blood everywhere else.)

(Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.)

She breathed, in and out, in and out, trying in vain to calm herself.

Quieter even than a mouse, and certainly more quiet that she’d ever seen him, and definitely more thoughtful, Jackson reached a hand behind him between the two seats, and she grabbed onto his hand for dear life, taking whatever comfort she could and holding on to it with white knuckles in the hopes that it would stop all the _shaking._

(He was shaking slightly too. She realised this was the first – and hopefully only – time he’d had to ever help kill someone; and he didn’t know how evil the man was. She squeezed tighter, and was worried when that garnered no response.)

Her dad’s hands were tight on the wheel and the gearstick, them bloody and his trousers bloody from all the blood in the front of the car.

Allison realised how much Stiles had managed to do – drive, create bombs, help kill a guy – whilst losing a lot of blood, and to be honest that deserved at least some respect. She’d respected him before for a lot of things, but this was a lot more than she’d ever expected.

(She resolved never to underestimate him again. And, considering how human at least four of them were, she decided having lots of med kits and other healing things would be a good idea.)

* * *

 

It wasn’t long before they’d gotten to the Hospital, all driving rules ignored in the process of getting there before the situation got any worse, and Allison’s dad got out, opened the back door and lifted Stiles up over his shoulder in a fireman lift. The teens got out, and ran up to the doors to open them, as her father power walked to the desk and demanded immediate hospital attention. “The boy has lost a lot of blood,” He spoke, serious. “Get a doctor. _Now.”_ Allison realised the nurse at the desk was Miss. McCall, and felt immediate pity when Scott’s mom recognised the teen her dad was holding. With wide eyes, her ex-maybe-not-ex’s mother barked some orders, and in a flurry of activity Allison missed because she was still _shaking,_ and _covered in her boyfriend’s friend’s blood_ , Stiles was moved to a hospital room and all her hard work was removed; bandages and plasters were taken off and the wound was exposed. It seemed so little, so insignificant; there was blood coming out but at a much slower rate, and she dimly heard someone praise her on how well she’d bandaged and cleaned his wound, and how there was no infection or anything, and all they would have to do is a blood transfusion, and she noted but didn’t notice her dad saying they’d pay, and _where is the Sheriff, he needs to know,_ and whatever they said she didn’t hear and she was steered away into the waiting room and there were words but she _was covered in blood and tried to kill two innocents and her aunt was dead and things were going horribly wrong_ -

“hey, hey, Allison”, someone said, calmly, quietly, a warm female voice that reminded her of Scott. “Miss. McCall?” She murmured, questioningly “Yes, Allison, it’s me.” Miss. McCall said. “It’s me, Mellissa. I’m going to help you get cleaned up, is that okay? I’m going to have to take you somewhere, is that fine?” Allison nodded dumbly to both questions, still numb and unfocused and _covered in blood_.

_Who’s was it again?_

Mellissa guided her into a room, then guided her to the bathroom of that room, and gently took her jacket, and sat her on the shower stool as she removed her boots.

Allison drifted, closing her eyes.

“Hey, Hey look at me” Mellissa said, quietly. “Allison I need you to concentrate, okay? Your mom will be here soon to help with more than the superficial things, but I need to get you clean, is that alright? Can you focus for me, Allison?”

Allison blinked, eyes focusing on Mellissa, and she nodded. She stood, a guiding hand on her shoulder, and moved to the sink. Mellissa carefully, kindly cleaned her arms, which was good because she’d have rubbed them raw because there’s just _so much blood_.

“See?” Mellissa said, after a minute or so. “Not so bad, was it? There wasn’t as much blood as your brain says there was, Allison. Barely any.” Allison was transfixed on the pink water that was draining down the sink, out the sink, through the pipes and remembered. “Stiles…” She said, blinking. “I tried but there was so much and it was everywhere…” Mellissa nodded, and carefully drew the young girl into a motherly hug. “I know, but he’ll be alright, Allison. He’s getting blood as we speak. You did a good job, honey, the plasters stopped any more getting through.”

She leant back and looked into her eyes. “Repeat after me, Allison. He’ll be okay.”

“He’ll be okay…” She murmured, blinking, a small smile gracing her features, relieved and happy. “He’ll – He’ll be just fine.” Mellissa nodded and let go of the girl. “Your mother is bringing some new clothes for you, Allison. She’ll be here shortly; would you like to stay on the bed or sit with Jackson?”

She blinked at the older woman. “Jackson?” Mellissa nodded. “Yes. He’s in the waiting area; near your friends’ rooms.” She nodded, absently. “Yeah, could I…?” Mellissa smiled, small and calm and careful. Nodding, she leads the way, and Allison finally relaxed.

_We’re going to be okay._

* * *

 

Chris and Scott were standing in Lydia’s room, and Scott carefully took a look at the more-than-a-scratch marks Peter had left behind as his second to last act.

 _Possibly,_ second to last act.

Scott shook his head and dropped the material, let it cover the marks again. He looked to Chris. “They’re still there. Fresh as if it had just happened.” Argent looked… well, Scott couldn’t quite tell. “Then we won’t have to kill her.” He said, blithely, and Scott glared at him. “You wouldn’t have killed her either way.” There was a pause, an uncomfortable silence before the door burst open and the Sheriff was there. Ignoring or unknowing the tension, he demanded to know where his son was. “Where is he?” his voice was loud and angry, and Chris looked on calmly. “Not until you calm down, Sheriff.” He replied. There was a tense moment before the older Stilinski grumbled and left the room, and then stopped a young nurse and demanded answers from them instead. He was taken aside by an older one, then spoken to by Mellissa, which seemed to calm him down. Mellissa took his arm, then took him and Allison down the hall to the waiting area.

The silence was tense again, so much so that a knife could have cut it. “If she killed anyone…” There was a pause. “We would have then.”

The male Argent left the room, leaving the door ajar.

Scott stood there, but was noticed by his returning mother, admonished then taken to the waiting area.

Allison was nowhere to be found, but Jackson was – asleep, apparently, though at any rate he was there, so Scott sat near but not next to him.

There was silence, and so Scott noticed his fatigue, and within seconds was fast asleep.

 

 

 


	2. Omega

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the changes that happened, last chapter, some things are obviously different. This is when that starts becoming apparent.

The sun was shining, and the skies were blue, but the day was less than perfect. Inside beacon hills hospital, was a girl and a boy, sitting next to each other. The boy's arm was around the girl's shoulders, and her right hand was holding his left, her left placed calmly on the armrest of her seat.

Allison and Scott were sleeping, as they had been in the hospital as often as possible and had refused to sleep until they passed out from exhaustion.

Allison was here for her friends, Lydia and Stiles, whilst Scott was here for his best friend (which was stiles) and to comfort his girlfriend who was worried to death about her best friend (which was Lydia) and the teen who had almost bleed to death on the seat beside her (which was Stiles), in the backseats of her friend Jackson's Porsche.

To recap, some bad shit went down; Peter was killed but not by Scott to cure but by Derek for revenge and power, her Aunt Kate was murdered in front of her for previous crimes committed, she'd almost killed a man and almost watched her boyfriend be killed, she'd helped kill Peter, and her friends had been injured in the moments leading up to the battle whilst she was busy being brainwashed and doing nothing helpful.

Allison woke up, with a start, then carefully moved to check the time, not wishing to wake Scott from his slumber.

_Monday, not too late. Okay._ She relaxed back into her boyfriend's hold, and rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes again.

_What a nightmare_ , she thought, _I must have had one, to wake so quickly and in a rush._

She remembered bits and pieces, then corrected herself. _Okay, not a nightmare exactly. Just altered memories._

She shuddered, and noticed Scott was waking. With a reluctant sigh, she moved his arm from around her shoulders.

They could be forgiven in sleep, but awake and aware was not a possibility. (Allison felt slightly guilty for using the fact her friends were Scott's friends so _of course_ the both of them would have to stay in the waiting room at the same time if they were to visit, there was _no way_ around that without it looking too odd.)

Allison scooted her chair away slightly, for good measure.

Scott blinked himself awake, and _god,_ it was so unfair that she couldn't kiss him.

_So goddamn unfair. He's never done anything wrong, he isn't hunting anyone. Why are they so hell bent on killing a sixteen-year-old kid?_

These were questions she couldn't answer and couldn't ask, so she stopped herself before she worked up her anger any more than it was usually these days, at least towards her parents.

Allison noticed a man exit Lydia's room, and nudged Scott to whisper to her if he or anyone said anything. The man looked at them, then turned to Melissa, who the two teens both waved at. "'They've been here all night.'" Scott quoted, "'They've been here mostly all weekend.'" The man blinked at Melissa, who gestured to the waiting area, then left. He shrugged, still confused, then sat across from them on the other row of seats. A little confused herself, she questioned him. "You were in Lydia's room?" The man nodded. "I'm her father."

She blinked. _Huh. Was not expecting that._

To be fair, the man looked nothing like Lydia; in fact, it was quite hard to see the resemblance between Mr. Martin and his daughter.

Allison shrugged, leaning back into her seat. "Alright then." "And you?" Mr. Martin asked. "Are you here for Lydia? Friends?" Allison nodded. "Yeah. Scott and I, we're here for Lydia and Stiles. They got injured a couple days ago… None of us are really certain what happened."

Which is true. Only Stiles was present for both things, and he'd yet to wake for more than a few minutes, a similar reaction to the bite that Lydia had had happening in him as well. And Lydia was waking for longer, but claimed (apparently quite truthfully, according to Scott) that she had not a single memory of the event, and when can she just _go home?_

But she was recovered enough to go home today, it seems, as Mr. Martin admitted that was what he was here for.

Suddenly there was a shriek coming from the general direction of Lydia's room, and Allison was up in seconds, Scott leading the way.

* * *

Melissa had a buzzer frantically beeping at her desk, and as many a nurse was headed to Lydia anyway, and she didn't want Stiles to rip out the tubes in panic, she ran to his room instead.

She opened the door, and Stiles seemed in the process of trying to take the tubes out of his arm with one hand whilst pressing the button with an elbow and clutching at one of his ears with the other.

"What the – the crap was that?!" he exclaimed, stopping pressing the button but still trying to get the tubes out. He managed before she could stop him, and, surprisingly, got out of bed with little effort and had seemingly no trouble standing up. He stared at her, or through her she couldn't quite tell, as he demanded, "It's Lydia, isn't it? What's wrong, what's going on, how many days has it been?" he rapid-fired at her, and it took a few too long seconds for her to process. "We don't – I don't know; I came here instead, all the others were headed there and I didn't want – or need – you panicking. An attack would make things worse, Stiles." She answered, saying more than she meant and faster than she wanted. He blinked at her, calming down. "She's gone, isn't she?" She stared at him. "What?" "Lydia – she's left the building, _vamos_ , she's gone." Melissa blinked. "That's not the right Spanish, stiles. But – I have no idea what you're-"

Another nurse entered the room, interrupting what she was about to say. It was a lady with dark skin and short hair, with a badge that showed her name was Kia Richardson. "Melissa – The martin girl – " The woman – Richardson - seemed out of breath. "She – She's _gone_ , Mel. Just – out the window. Disappeared, even the young Argent girl can't track her. And – And, McCall – she's _naked._ It's gonna be cold tonight, Melissa, she's runnin' 'round the preserve, naked as the day she was born, and we've gotta get the police on this." She blinked at the teen who was standing, scared for his friend and determined to do what he can, next to the bed in the middle of the room dressed in a hospital gown. "Oh, and the Sheriff left some clothes for his son; they're down at the desk. I gotta go." And so the lady was off, and Stiles sat down on the side of the bed, resigned to not being able to do anything, dressed as he was.

Melissa sighed. "I'll be right back," she told him, as she knew the boy would be inconsolable until he was able to help, somehow. Then she left to get his clothes, the teen's eyes following her until the door shut behind Melissa.

* * *

 

Scott was incredibly worried now. Not only was his best friend in hospital, and his secretly-still-dating-but-shh ex-girlfriend's best friend still recovering; but now Lydia'd gone missing, just – straight out the window, it seems.

Allison was frightened for her friend; worried about what might happen to the naked girl out in the middle of the woods.

_Oh yeah._ It wasn't bad enough she'd run off; apparently, the universe decreed she'd be naked, as well.

Another nurse, one by the name of Kia Richardson (a friend of his mothers, if he was not mistaken) burst into the room. "'ve told Mel about the break out." She informed the doctor, Doctor Sanchez Rivera. The man nodded. "Thank you, Richardson. Now." He turned to us, and me and Allison quickly stepped away from each other, though I stayed holding her hand.

(It would be seen as a friend offering comfort. Her parents were allowing us to make the split seem natural; that we just drifted apart, rather than being together one day and avoiding each other like the plague the next. Also, we have the same (or at least very similar) friend group, and they accepted that we'd have to be in the same room to avoid confusion on the other teens' parts.)

Mom entered the room, smiled at us quickly before turning to address the Doctor. "Marco – I've given Stiles the clothes Mr. Stilinski left here, he should be here soon. Any progress on Lydia's whereabouts?" The doctor shook his head, sighing. "No, McCall. The other staff have looked inside and around the hospital, but she's nowhere to be seen. She's probably in the preserve already."

The door burst open with a _bang,_ and Allison reached for a bow or a weapon of some sort that wasn't actually there.

_Damn it Stiles,_ she thought, as the boy in question was rapidly firing questions at the adults in the room, responding to Scott's "Hey" with a flail of his hand.

"Woah, kid, calm down." The doctor said, and Scott's mom put a hand on Stiles' arm. Stiles shook his head. "Not until I get some _answers._ " He retorted, slightly angry but that was just there to cover up his fear for his crush. "Where. Is. _She?!"_ He demanded, pausing between the words and angry on the last.

He shoved Miss. McCall's hand off his arm with his right hand, unflinching, and Allison noticed he'd only put on a T-Shirt and Trousers, socks and shoes in his hurry.

The first thing she noticed, (aside from the analytical part of her brain that noticed he had more muscles than she'd expected, and again resolved to never underestimate him) was that the bite was fully healed; the only marks were where she assumed he'd simply ripped the tubing out of his arm.

There was a small trickle of blood coming from one of them.

"Hey, Stiles." She said. "You're bleeding. You're not gonna be any use to Lydia if you faint again." The doctor and nurse noticed this, and Dr. Rivera cursed under his breath. "Mr. Stilinski, _sit down._ Calm down, and Melissa will get a plaster on that." He nodded to Scott's mom, and left the room in a hurry; hopefully to go call the police, and _get her friend found before she froze to death._

Stiles grimaced. "It's fine." He told Melissa, shortly, and with a glance – and a double take – Allison knew it was.

There was a small amount of blood on his arm, which he wiped off, but underneath and anywhere else there were no open wounds. "Can I go now?" he snapped. "Scott – Allison, let's _go."_ He demanded, and then walked into the bathroom.

_What –_

_God damn it you injured idiot._

Allison dragged Scott, who had just registered what Stiles was about to do, into the bathroom.

The window was open, again, and there was no Stiles to be seen.

"At least he has clothes on…" Scott said, weakly. Melissa snorted, which surprised Allison slightly. "And he could run away after being in a shower and magically appear later with clothes on somehow. The problem is that they're _both_ missing now, so it's not only the Martin girl but also _Stiles,_ the _Sheriff's son,_ who got out." She sighed, and cursed under her breath, not quite quiet enough in the silence of the room. "Just – Just stay here, okay you two?" Muttering, Scott's Mom left the room, and it was just Scott and Allison standing in the empty, quiet bathroom.

"I can try and track them," Scott told her, and she smiled. "Well, go on then. Find our friends; I'll distract the others."

He knew that the 'others' meant 'the Argents who will probably try to kill those two if they find them first'.

Scott nodded, and vaulted out of the window (Which was a storey higher than he'd expected; which was worrying in and of itself).

Once he'd landed, he saw the two sets of tracks and smelt the distinctive scent of a freshly washed Lydia and _Stiles,_ and took off running.

* * *

 

Allison watched him go for a moment, then spun 'round and exited the bathroom. Not a moment later, the door to Lydia's room opened, and her father entered along with some Trackers, and she knew they meant business.

She curled her hands into fists, the sound of her knuckles cracking filled the silent air.

Her father smiled disarmingly at her, and she wondered why she'd never found that even slightly threatening until now.

(Her knuckles were white and her hands were shaking slightly. _God,_ could she be more pathetic?)

"You aren't going to do anything." She told him, calmly, and felt rather proud that her voice didn't shake in the slightest.

"We just want to find her, that is all." Her father informed her, that I'm-not-threatening-you-but-ha!-Yeah-I-totally-am smile still plastered onto his face.

" _des conneries,_ " she spat at her father. "You're going to try to kill her, aren't you?"

He sighed. "She's a werewolf, Allison. We have to."

Allison near growled at him. "You know you sound like _Kate,_ Father? You don't want to be _Her."_

There was silence, as her father lifted a finger to silence and stop his lackeys, then closed it into his fist and the slight, amused smile left his face to be replaced by utter seriousness.

"You don't understand, Allison. You don't know what's going on, you're-"

She threw the needle that she'd discretely grabbed from the tray at him, and it grazed his ear close enough to cut.

He lifted his hand, slightly surprised, and when he pulled it away his fingers had blood on them.

" _Don't._ " She spoke, voice low and dangerous. "Don't you _dare_ tell me I'm 'too young' for this _merde!"_ By now she was yelling, caught up in feelings she'd had for a while.

(Well. At least a week or so. God, had it only been that long?)

"This is _all your fault,_ Dad! Telling me _nothing,_ letting _Kate_ worm her way into my mind and fill it with utter crap! _I almost killed a guy,_ Dad! An _Innocent,_ I don't give a single fuck if he was a werewolf or not, he'd _done nothing wrong!_ You and mom, threatening me and Scott just because I want to date him? Crazy! Utter crap, by the way, because Scott is literal sunshine in human form. Rainbows and puppies an' all that. You're going to kill Lydia, just because she _might_ be a werewolf, and it hasn't even been a full moon yet." Her face morphed; her expression was now one of disgust. "You _sicken_ me." There was a pause, a silence too long for her liking. " _Putain, Chris_. Are you a good person, or are you hell bent on genocide? You can only pick one. _So do it._ "

She put as much scorn as she could into his name, and she was happy, (no, triumphant) that he'd flinched, ever so slightly.

Her father stared at her, for a moment, before signalling his men to stand down. "If she hurts _anyone,_ it is on your head, Allison. And it lies to you to _take her out,_ if she does. Her, _and_ that Stiles boy. The more they kill, the more you are responsible for it, because the more you've let _monsters_ live."

And with that, her _Father_ and his men left the room, guns going back into their hiding places, hopefully headed home.

With a shaky sigh, Allison collapsed to the bed, dropping the needles back onto the tray.

_Well,_ she thought, optimistically. _That went better than I'd hoped._

(Though now, her father's last words ran through her mind, a niggling doubt she tried to crush to no avail.

_What if?...)_

* * *

 

Stiles wasn't sure where he was going.

In fact, he'd go so far as to say he's not sure _what he's doing._

_Well. Not exactly._ He knows where he is; the preserve, he knows what his objective is; to find Lydia, but he also knows he has no fucking clue how to find a missing person.

He's no tracker, that's for certain.

What's happening is actually kind of weird; he knows he's running and in a forest, but it almost doesn't seem like _he's_ the one running in the forest. He knows his objective but he has no idea how to accomplish it; yet there he is, running as if he knows exactly where he's going.

_What the fuck is going on_.

He stumbles to a halt as he comes back to himself, and suddenly the sky is dark and his arms are cold, and he knows he's in the preserve at night –

And there's Lydia. Curled up, next to some old stump thing, shivering and cold and _so small._

Without thinking, Stiles took his top of and draped it over her shaking form, and she curled further inwards.

(He balked when his brain caught up to the fact that _she was naked,_ but it doesn't matter right now. _Shut up, I'm try'na keep her alive here._ )

He mentally apologised to her usual self, and took of his shoes and socks, then put his socks on her feet to hopefully warm them.

(He put his shoes back on.)

Carefully, he shook her shoulder, and murmured, " _Come on,_ Lydia. Wake up, _come on,_ You need to get up…" and a few tries later she did just that. The girl blinked blearily up at him, then registered her surroundings and sat up quickly.

He turned around as fast as was possible, because he was utterly certain she wouldn't want him to see her naked.

(It'd be quite rude, really.)

He heard the shifting of fabric, and a sleepy, confused, slightly hoarse voice asked him, "Stiles?". "Yeah." He replied. "Yeah, Lydia. It's me."

She tapped him lightly on the shoulder, and he craned his neck around to see her.

The T-shirt he'd given her to wear was practically a dress – if a rather short one, though it was no worse than the skirts she usually wore.

Aware, wide, bright green eyes blinked at him, confused and worried and still slightly sleepy.

Her lips were shivering, slightly blue and evidence of the cold.

(He realised he was shivering too.)

"Where are we?" She asked, and that was a very good question.

Stiles didn't know the answer.

"I have no idea." He replied, then helped her sit on the stump rather than the floor, which was covered in little twigs and other little things she could break her skin on.

He sat next to her, and they looked around the clearing.

(she leaned into him for warmth, both of them shivering in the cold.)

"Wait…" Stiles murmured. "I know this place…"

Lydia turned her head towards him. "You do?" She sounded slightly excited and slightly curious, any tiredness gone at the chance of getting back to the town.

"Yeah…" He looked around.

_How do I know this place?_

Almost as if in a trance, he helped Lydia stand, the both of them supporting the other. He turned left, and lead her along a path he'd never taken, as far as he knew.

Lydia was speaking to him, he noted, absently.

He ignored her, and steered them right. There was a hole where she was about to walk; it'd be a nightmare to get her out again.

_Wait,_ he mentally paused. His feet kept moving. _How did I know that? The leaves covered it…_

In this odd state of his, he led them through the trees for minutes on end, finally arriving at their destination when the moon was high in the sky.

He blinked, faltered, and Lydia grabbed onto him tighter, tight enough to stop him from falling face first into the forest floor.

He murmured a "Thanks" to her, then stared up at the hollow shell that used to be the Hale House, before the fire.

He straightened up, Tightened his grip around her shoulder and squeezed her hand in comfort. "I know how to get back from here."

Weakly, she rolled her eyes. "I was hoping that was where- where we were going earlier." He turned to blink at her, confused. She raised a delicate eyebrow. "Don't you remember? We were at this old – stump, and you said you knew where we were." She looked annoyed. "Apparently, you didn't know how to get back from there – and nor did you answer my questions or let us sit down when I asked." She _humphed,_ a quietly annoyed sound. "Are you going to take us back now, Stiles, or are we going for another delightful stroll in the woods? My feet hurt." She asked then complained, a slight, ever so slight, whine in the last three words.

(The rest were laden with snark. Because of course they were; she was injured, tired, and had sore feet. He deserved the snarky-ness she gave.)

He sighed, shivered in the cold breeze, and nodded.

Who'd want to be out at night in the woods in – in February? January? – without a shirt on?

(Answer: Nobody would. Except maybe a nudist.)

"Let's go," He said, and then it was her turn to nod, and with that they turned and he led them in the direction of home.

(In his peripheral vision, the Hale House turned white, then he blinked and it was burned again. Odd.)

* * *

 

It took longer than hoped to get to the edge of the preserve, but it took less than seconds to be swamped by police officers and medical professionals, by friends and family.

(Some idiots decided to gawk at Lydia, (and at him) so he tried to shield her (at the same time she tried to shield him.))

Lydia got given a coat that some nurse or other tried to help put on. With a "I'm not four, nor am I incapable," She put the coat on effortlessly, though her voice was still as hoarse as before.

Scott handed him a shirt that had been passed on by his dad, and Stiles put it on as quickly as possible. Allison lent Lydia her shoes, which she seemed grateful for. She was handed a longer skirt which she put on over her head, now more suitably dressed (even if the outfit was something she utterly despised, judging by her expression.).

The T-shirt he was wearing was thin cotton, though for some reason now he didn't feel so cold. With a shrug, he dismissed it, because really. He wasn't about to look the gift of warmth in the mouth, though that expression makes no sense like that what the hell.

A few minutes later, temperatures checked and vitals looked at, Lydia was taken back to the hospital (with no shortage of complaining) and his dad took him home, with a wave of goodbye from his friends.

He thought he saw a teen that shouldn't be there leaning against the ambulance, but another look and he was gone.

_Weird._

His dad took one look at him, and said, with finality, "Sleep, Stiles."

And so he did.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two! Got it done, which is good. May be a few until I can do another one, so I hope all this is good enough for now. :).


	3. Lunar Lunacy (or, The Full Moon's A-Coming. Oh Wait, It's Already Here.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In today's chapter, shit goes down.   
> As per usual then, eh?

Stiles was on medical leave for the week.

Now, some might think this great, _no more Harris,_ they would think. _That’s good, right? A week without the stress-inducing, anxiety-activating, ‘is this the Week I’m finally going to have a panic attack’ Scott and Allison based werewolf problems, that’s good, right?_

Well, in Stiles’ opinion; think again.

Sure, he’d thought that too when he got the news, but then he was stuck under house arrest and his only correspondents were Lydia and his Dad, so he was stuck with only their knowledge of the situation.

And they had none. He’d checked.

(And had to sit through a long-ass voice mail sent by Lydia complaining about how Allison never told her anything, and Jackson had gone off the deep end et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, and _why was the only person who would speak to her **Stiles Stilinski,** of all people. _– which definitely did not hurt his feelings, thank you very much - _And no, she’s not bitter, she’s Lydia Martin, the most popular teen in beacon hills, future field Medal winner. She’s not crazy, thank you very much. On the plus side, she lost eight pounds, and her mother bought her a whole new wardrobe._ She’d said it was a plus side. He didn’t really care, just knew that half the stuff he’d gotten her for her birthday would need to be returned.)

(At least it wouldn’t be all of it. Not like last year, or the year before that…)

With a sigh, Stiles spun his desk chair in a lazy circle, having completed the work he’d been set.

_Oh yeah._ Not only was he on medical leave, but he was still expected to do all the work, minus the actual being taught it part.

_Medical leave sucks,_ is the conclusion, and he’d be damned if he ever had to have it again.

_Why do I, when Lydia can just wander around, being perfectly fine and all that? She’s the one who lost weight!_

He steadfastly ignored that he spent the whole of the next day in and out of sleep, and that he still hadn’t quite gotten his appetite back enough to start taking Adderall again.

(Not that he cared what the doctors said. He was fine, so he was taking it, because he had work to do. Might as well use the time productively, eh?)

Stiles stopped the chair spinning as it faced the desk again. His desk was covered in a whole heap of research, a messy kind of organised that only he really understood – a way to make it harder for his dad to snoop, even if it wouldn’t actually be that hard if he sorted it. But he wouldn’t; Stiles was confident of that.

His foot tapping an uneven rhythm on the floor, Stiles typed another random supernatural topic that jumped into his head.

_I wonder…_ he mused. _Well, we have were **wolves,** right? Are there any other were creatures? Actually, while we’re on the topic of were creatures I should probably get some more concrete info on the main guys themselves, Scotty might have some powers or some easier ways to control himself we don’t know of… _

And on that thought, Stiles started typing, fingers crossing the keyboard as fast as lighting.

_New touch-typing would come in handy… hmm… that looks more reputable than the rest of the HTML conspiracy theory sites…_

He clicked on the link, and with a sigh closed down the page again.

_Nope. Well, that was only search result five out of… four hundred, fifty-five thousand results. **Just perfect.** Well, that sucks. _

Stiles groaned in annoyance – and boredom, and frustration, with maybe a smidge of anger; having been researching since he finished his work in the early hours of the morning. It would now be, funnily enough, AP biology if he were in school, which was an afternoon class and had been as long as he’d had it (but we’re getting off track so anyway)– then shoved his chair backwards with his feet, expecting to slide a bit and spin.

He was not expecting to rocket backwards and hit the wall with the full force of if Scott had just decided to smash his head in to the wall that day Stiles had tried to convince him he had lycanthropy.

There was a resounding **_crack_** as the chair hit the wall.

Praying to whatever beings existed that no major damage he couldn’t fix before his dad got home, he carefully got up (and was relieved that the breakage hadn’t been any part of _him_ ) and pried his squeezed-shut eyes open to survey the damage.

The weight on his mind and shoulders seemed to lift when everything seemed as perfectly not in pieces as it had been not a minute before – _uh. Well._

Except for the base of his chair, the wheels’ part, that was fucked. But there had been no problems with the structural integrity of the walls and stuff, so that was a relief.

(Stiles was just glad it hadn’t been his door, or the bed or the window or wardrobe. That probably would have broken, and been a lot more trouble to fix unnoticed. He broke the wheels all the time; it was an old chair. He knew how to fix those easy.)

He paused for a moment, the baulked, because, _what the actual – oh my god I just did that holy hell._

Stumbling back in panic he tripped over something or other – though probably nothing, knowing him – and lay on his back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

_What the actual **fuck.**_

* * *

 

A little while later, the sun lower in the sky, Stiles snapped out of his stupor to the rumbling of his stomach.

_Crap, I didn’t take food to Dad, he’s probably fallen back into bad habits and lowered his lifespan and increased his potential likelihood for death already damnit._

With a sigh and a groan, he dragged himself out of bed and wandered downstairs, still in his pyjamas because why would he get changed, he’s at home he can be comfortable all day if he wants. _It’s not like I have to be anywhere._ He thought, still slightly annoyed but mostly amused.

(Weirdly enough, it seemed he’d forgotten about the whole incident with the chair. Stranger than that, it didn’t seem to be broken in the first place, the chair being back in its place at the desk and all.)

He grabbed himself some coke – diet, because he didn’t let them keep anything unhealthy for his dad in the house for longer than it too Stiles himself (and Scott, most often) to eat it, although he had found stealthy snacks in his dad’s office. It’s why he knew his passwords; how else was he to make sure he didn’t eat himself into an early grave? He’s taking it all _out_ of those locked cupboards, thank you very much. – and a sandwich, then plonked himself down on the couch and resigned himself to _Friends_ re-runs, as there wasn’t really much else on at this time of day. _Maybe I could find the Star Wars movies – Hey, wait they’ve added a channel just for Harry Potter movies? Cool._ Happy with his discovery, he settled down for a few hours’ marathon of the ones he hadn’t seen yet.

The phone saw it’s moment, and rang just as the movie started.

“Oh, come on!” Stiles complained. He paused the movie, and got up, went over to the house phone and grabbed it, a little irritable, and said, “Hello?”

“Stiles, hey man. I was wondering if you got –” and here, his voice lowered, not much really but kudos for the effort, in a way that meant he was trying to keep this secret. As it should be. “- _got anything for the moon tonight?_ ” With an internal sigh, because couldn’t his best friend at least pretend they had other things to talk about these days, for Stiles’ dad’s sake, Stiles answered. “Yeah, man. You’re gonna have to-” Scott hung up, fast as can be, and Stiles held the phone away from his face, and stared at it with an offended look, as if it had been the one to end the call. With an external sigh, this time, he went up the stars quickly and opened his window.

A few minutes later he heard Scott’s new(ish) bike arrive, and park, and he stood up and grabbed the chain and padlocks. And ridiculous, high-end, they-put-dangerous-criminals-in-these-bad-boys (the type of criminal that broke out of the usual chains and had to be re-restricted) handcuffs that may or may not have been gotten through means that may or may not have involved things that were not on the high road they usually drive on.

( _But hey_. Needs must… and it helps he can name drop the Argents. And has a rather nice voice modulator thing. _Heh. Apparently, they don’t just deal in legal weapons trading… but underground, black-market stuff too. Oh, the blackmail…_ )

Shaking his head he broke himself out of his thoughts and turned around, just as the teen wolf himself jumped through his window.

“Hey.” Scott grinned. “You opened it this time.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “Dude. Last time was not the best time for you – there were questions.” Scott grimaced, and shrugged, a little sheepish but unrepentant. “So?” He asked, nodding to the stuff in his hands. “They for me?” Stiles laughed. “Yeah buddy. Imagine if this was at school though…” Scott laughed too. “Coach would have a heart attack – after telling us some unwanted information.” Stiles offered the chains, handcuffs and padlocks, and Scott took them with ease. He nodded to himself, then spoke. “Lydia’s back at school today. Everyone’s been… well, pretty awful to her and Allison. You know, they think they’re crazy.” Stiles raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “I wonder why. Lydia said she lost eight pounds, by the way.” Scott blinked, confused as to why Stiles told him, but shrugged. “Yeah – Allison said the same, I don’t get why people keep saying this though.”

Stiles, again, rolled his eyes. “Losing eight pounds in a night because of the temperature, lack of food and wandering through the woods in a fugue state, isn’t the best way to go around things, Scotty.”

Scott nodded, understanding now. “Oh. Right, yeah, didn’t think about that.”

There was a lull, and Scott seemed to realise something. “Oh! Right. Uhm, you’ve missed some stuff while you’ve been out.” Stiles nodded, letting the slightest bit of annoyance out into his tone. “Yeah. Me and Lydia – we’ve been commiserating over the fact no-one’s telling us anything. It’s not that great being as out of the loop as any of the rest of them.”

Scott nodded again, a slight almost unnoticeable wince crossing his features. “You haven’t missed _too_ much, it’s only been a few days.” “A few days is a few too many. People can catch deadly illnesses and _die_ in a few _hours,_ Scott. A few days? I’d like a world where a few days isn’t a time that Armageddon could happen in.” Scott looked at him, blank and ‘ _stiles is being paranoid again.’_ Stiles _humph-ed_. The forceful exhale was loud in the quiet room, the quiet house.

He fell back onto his desk chair, and it slid a bit from the force of his momentum.

Scott sighed, and sat on the bed. “I guess I should catch you up then.” Stiles _looked_ at him, and Scott huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. Right. So, the other day Kate’s funeral happened. It was all over the newspaper – but you knew that. The important part is that – well, I don’t really know how to put this, but her insane, possibly psychopathic Grandad is in town.”

“This family just keeps getting better and better, eh?” Stiles muttered, low but loud enough for Scott to hear, and he snorted, a dry sound that showed he saw the dark humour in that.

“So what does the new crazy want with us this time, Scotty?” He shrugged. “Don’t know – well, I do, but I don’t think _he_ knows I’m a werewolf… at least, I hope he doesn’t.” There was a pause. “He chopped an omega wolf in half in the preserve the other night.” Scott told him, suddenly, and that was enough to shock him into stumbling out of his chair, to standing in the middle of the room. Stiles blinked, it registered, and he blanched. “Damn.” “Yeah.” Scott replied. “I don’t know what the guy was here for… I think I saw him earlier at the school. He wasn’t much older – or younger, for that matter – than we are. Jackson was insulting him.” “Oh, he’s still around then?” Scott looked at him questioningly. Stiles rolled his eyes – again. “It’s obvious isn’t it? We left him alone, he went to Derek, got bit and, well, I wasn’t sure he’d live. Damn, as if he needed a reason to be even more of an ass than before. Now he’s gonna have the power to back it up.” Scott looked worryingly at him. “You sure, dude?” Stiles nodded, though he wasn’t quite sure _why_ he was certain – but he felt it in his _bones,_ he just _knew_ that Jackson had been a bigger idiot than usual. Stiles’ voice was firm. “Yes, Scott. Yeah, he’s been even more of a Jackass than usual.” Scott’s lips quirked up, remembering a time from when they were younger, and he nodded. “I guess I should talk to him then. Tell him there are more options than Derek.” Stiles shrugged. “Do what you want about it dude. As is, I don’t really care.” Scott gave him the side-eye. Stiles raised an eyebrow. Scott raised one back. Stiles folded his arms. Scott sighed, and dropped his gaze. “I guess I should tell you one last thing.”

“Yeah?” Stiles sat back down. “What?”

“Gerard…” Scott started, haltingly, “Allison’s Grandfather – He’s our new principal.”

Stiles let out a rush of air, and his laugh sounded on the verge of hysterical. “Awesome. Another crazy-ass Argent, except this time they’re in charge of us! Wonderful. Just – that’s perfect. We know one is killed, and the rest come a-haunting.” Scott frowned at him. Stiles waved him off, brushing the concern away because it was _very much unnecessary, thanks man, goodbye._ Scott glanced outside, sighed at something Stiles couldn’t be bothered to look for (probably failwolf himself, speak of the devil and all that), and got up. He grabbed the full moon equipment, and turned his head to Stiles. “One more day.” He told him, then left.

“One more day…” Stiles echoed.

_You can hold on for that, Stilinski._

(When he went to slide the chair over to the computer to get more research done via the depths of Wikipedia (which had been weirdly accurate so far – almost as if it had been written just for their specific types of creatures…) the chair dragged. Confused, he bent down to check the wheels, and saw that they’d been worn down, that they’d been put back on wrong, that they were too tight and had gotten stuck. He frowned at the hairline crack in the metal, but shrugged it off.

_Weird. Gonna have to fix that.)_

* * *

 

The phone rings again – though this time, it’s his mobile.

“What is it, disturb Stiles from finding shit out day or something?” Stiles grumbled, then grabbed for his phone and answered without bothering to look at who called. “Hello, Stiles here.” “Hey, Stiles! Glad I caught you – I couldn’t get through to Scott – and my family they were asking all these questions – About Lydia – and now a guy’s got some box or something, with some carving… oh! Here, I’ll send it; it was in one of my books. Did you get it?” “Yeah, hold on – uh. Shit. That’s wolfsbane, what was the guy dressed like?” “Why – erhm, like a cop, or something? A deputy, I think. Why?” “Then most likely he’ll be going to the police station then. I can’t leave the house – Dad’s suspicious enough as is. Oh man, that’s a particularly strong type of wolfsbane too.” He whistled. “Ho-ly shit. And rare. Expensive too.” Stiles could tell she probably grimaced. “Wonderful. Okay, so – what. I don’t know – is he going for Lydia, or for Isaac –” “Woah – wait – Wait, what? Isaac, as in, Lahey? He’s a were-wolf now?” “Yeah, apparently. Scott had the decency to tell me after lacross today – apparently both their eyes glowed when they met or something like werewolf instincts – I don’t really care, but they sent one guy out and being wrong would suck.” There was a pause. “I’ll call Lydia.” Stiles said finally. “Not sure how I’m gonna convince her, but I’ll inviter her over. Turn the alarm on… not much I can do, but hopefully the house being the sheriff’s will deter them or something. I hope. That’s pretty much all we can do without telling her.” There was a pause. “I don’t want to tell her.” “And I respect your decision. I don’t want my dad to know either, and I’m trusting you to stop him _completely_ before he gets _anywhere near_ my dad. Paralyse him, if you have to. _Don’t let him get to the Sheriff’s station._ ” He could almost – no, _could_ hear her nod, hear the subtle shifting of the static and the near silent scraping of bitten nails. “Alright. I’m – gonna have to go _now_ then. Call you later. _Do not call me._ Got it?” “Aye aye, Allison.” He snorted, even if it wasn’t really the time for that. “Loud and clear. I’ll get Lydia – hopefully – safe as houses. Alright?” “Yeah.” She breathed. “gotta go.” And the call ended. Not offended this time, he immediately called up Lydia Martin in his contacts, and dialled her number.

“Hey, Lydia. I was wondering…”

* * *

 

Allison drove her car as fast as laws would allow, whilst staying behind enough to not be seen. At a set of red lights the fake deputy had to stop at, she stopped, parked, a little ways down, then hid in an alleyway. Taking out her bow, using arrows coated with some paralytic toxin or another that was supposed to leave you paralysed for as long as possible without killing you, but would take ten minutes to kick in (and she’d calculated. At the rate they were going, ten minutes was around enough for him to have gotten into the car park; one it had kicked in he’d be parked up, sure, but he’d be trapped.

Allison wasted an arrow out of ten on a tyre wheel.

_One._

_Don’t miss._

_Two._

The man got out of the car.

_Three._

She drew the bowstring back, the strain familiar and comforting to her arms.

_Four._

She evened her breaths. He was on the right side of the car now, but not quite in range.

_Go._

She let go, her aim steady and true, and with a silent _hiss_ through the air, it landed it’s target, straight in the thigh, going only through muscle and a clean shot.

She lowered her bow, but loaded it just to be safe. She retreated further into the shadows, and watched.

The fake deputy she vaguely recognised from one too many family functions Allison had had to attend back in France, gripped the end of the arrow, avoiding the sharp edges, and _snapped_ it off. He pocketed it, knowing leaving it on the ground would be a mistake.

(Allison mentally cursed. That was more evidence she’d need to get rid of when she knocked him out.)

The man then grabbed the arrow shaft with two hands, and ripped it out.

He yelled in pain, though muffled through practice, and she winced alongside.

(ouch.)

He dropped it on the floor and stumbled back into the car, then put his foot on the gas and drove, ignoring his tyre was slowing him down.

Allison frowned. She forgot to take that into account, and she didn’t want him crashing. At least her finger prints were on the end of the arrow he _hadn’t_ taken. That could have been a disaster.

She went and picked it up, grimacing at the blood that got on her fingers.

(her hands were shaking again, though not as much as last time. Is this what it was like for her mother?

(Is this how Kate was formed?))

(A smirk slowly pulled up the corner of her mouth. It meant nothing.)

* * *

 

“So. You discovered there’s a channel entirely dedicated to Harry Potter, of all things, and you decided to call me rather than Scott because you – what, think we’re friends? Even Allison may have humoured you. Why me?”

Stiles tried not to let the words hurt, but they still stung a little anyway.

(but if he was a master at anything, it was hiding himself from other people. People other than Scott and his Dad… who, lately, he’d hidden himself from rather well. It was necessary, the distance.

Never mind that he was never told anything anymore. That to get useful info his position as Scott’s in to the official channels, he had to use increasingly underhanded methods neither of them quite understand how well he knows (though Danny knows more. But in those circles, Danny’s a Genius. The capital is necessary. _I mean, come on. He broke into Pentagon at thirteen. It’s just easier to pretend I don’t know things. It works for Lydia, doesn’t it?_ ). It means his dad’s safe. In the end, that’s all that matters.))

Stiles grinned. “Pleasant as always. But they’re both busy, and I figured you might want some company.”

She glared at him, a little, the sickeningly sweet fake smile on her face far too obvious. “I don’t need your pity, Stilinski, or have you forgotten I’m not the only one people think are crazy? I hear you’re somewhere in Eichen house, though honestly that seems rather unlikely, given the circumstances, doesn’t it?”

Stiles faltered, pursed his lips.

Lydia faltered, her eyes softening before going as hard as diamond. The smile stayed in place throughout, and he commended her on that at least. Some might have seen it for so long that they think it’s real. She probably thinks him to be one of those some ones. (He’s a little offended, gonna be honest.)

She stepped inside, toed off her heels at the door and suddenly shrunk a few inches. (Still as imposing as ever. Her very presence makes her seem larger than life – commands attention. No-one would dare look down on Lydia Martin, for any reason other than a height difference.) Lydia wandered the downstairs rooms, browsed the kitchen and entered the living room, examining their collection of DVDs. She hummed as she went, making non-committal noises, noises of disgust or commenting as she went.

She frowned at the lower shelf, a row of dusty old movies that hadn’t been touched in –

She glanced at Stiles.

(He was looking everywhere but the bottom shelf, she realised. His eyes either just passed straight over it as if it wasn’t there, or jumped passed it altogether.)

Lydia stepped away (From what was likely his mother’s collection, sitting there collecting dust) and stepped towards another shelf with newer titles.

(Stiles’ posture relaxed and his nervous fidgeting halted, though the movement itself remained. She’d get annoyed if she didn’t know he took Adderall on prescription, and deduced from there and his behaviour he had ADHD of some sort.)

(she decided she’d already pushed it today with her bitchiness towards him. One shot at his mother and suddenly he was all over the place. She would be too, Lydia reckoned, but she didn’t feel sorry enough to say so.)

Lydia spun round, having had enough of the silence.

Stiles jumped slightly, at the unexpected movement, and stopped staring at… the shelf, for some reason _there’s nothing special about that shelf._ He smiled, half-heartedly at Lydia, having been caught off balance.

“What was with the other day?” She demanded, suddenly. “I’m in the shower, next thing I know you’re there and gave me your shirt, then you go in your own fugue stae and drag me to some abandoned building, then you almost fall over, and then _I_ space out and the next thing I know is some guys and girls from our year are staring at us, half naked as we were, and I’m being bustled into some warmer stuff while you stand there in old jeans, no socks and a thin t-shirt, perfectly fine when your lips were blue and chattering earlier! _I want to know what’s going on with us._ And you, _you’re going to help me find out.”_ There was a pause. “So that’s…” She rolled her eyes. “Yes. So that’s why I accepted your invite. I was going to wait until you came back to school, but this came at a perfect time and I am not one to waste opportunities if they happen by.” He nodded, though only in acceptance. “…Right.” Her eyes glinted. “We’re going to go find that old stump again. But first, we’re going to find the abandoned white house in the middle of the woods – and why it’s there in the first place.” Stiles blinked at her. “The – you mean the hale house? It was built years ago – this wasn’t even really a town then. It was in that family for generations, before they were wiped out by Kate Argent and her lackeys. It’s not _white and abandoned,_ though. More like a burnt up shell of a formerly grand home. Bits are missing, glass is shattered or non-existent, parts are collapsing… why would you want to go there?” He seemed honestly confused to Lydia, so she rolled her eyes.

_Ha. Got her. Come on Lydia, give me something I can refute…_

“Because you knew your way there from that old stump thing, right? So they’ve _got_ to be connected, somehow. Maybe there are some tunnels, or something. Maybe they were sealed off, but maybe we can follow them above ground. I don’t know, but I _know_ it’s important, whatever’s there. The house more than the stump, but the Stump interests me more than the house… oddly enough.”

He wasn’t going to admit he had the same felling about the house, but as for the stump…

Stiles wasn’t going to admit it _called_ to him, either. No creepy old massive tree stumps for Stiles, no thank you.

“I’m not really sure this is a great idea, Lydia.”

She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at him, and he knew it meant trouble.

“Oh really? So that rumour going around at the beginning of the year; about you and McCall going into the preserve and finding bits of a person… that was _Scott’s_ idea, then?”

There was a pause.

“He _is_ always bitching about how nothing ever happens in this town…”

_Ah. Good._ He managed to keep the tense in the one he needed.

Lydia rolled her eyes, impatient. “I know it was you, Stiles. Shut up.”

There was another pause.

“Well?” She asked him.

Stiles blinked. “We can’t go now, I’m on medical leave, remember? My dad put me under house arrest… literally, as he’s the sheriff. Also, hate to break it to you Lydia, but you aren’t exactly dressed for a trek in the woods at night. A skirt, high heels, thin top, no coat, no flashlight…”

She refused to scowl, as the expression never looked nice on any face ever, but she did have to admit he was right, at least, in her own mind. (And out loud. Shit.)

With a sigh, she relented without voicing anything, and his smile was more genuine.

(It had been genuine before – the boy worships the ground she walks on. But still.)

“So. Should we watch some movies, since that was why you’re here in the first place?”

She hummed.

“I suppose.”

His smile turned to a smirk. “You can complain about the lack of logic if you would like, Miss I’m-Going-To-Win-A-Field-Medal.”

And whatever confidence he’d suddenly gained left, and he blinked, confused. Shaking his head, he near repeated what he’d said. “And, uh – any logical inaccuracies with the magic – you can rant about those, if you like.” With that, he sat down, and pressed play on the television. She sat on the other end of the couch, poised and not the most comfortable.

He rolled his eyes. “Relax, Lydia. This isn’t some high society function.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just because I have good posture –”

He shrugged. “Fine. Sit how you like.”

She did.

(She relaxed into the seat, and curled her legs up on the couch. Lydia ignored the small, triumphant smile. He’d lose it later. After all, he _did_ say she could rant to him what she’d never been able to since she saw the read the first book…)

* * *

 

“I cannot believe how they utterly _obliterated_ Ron’s character!” Lydia fumed.

The movies had finished, and Lydia had actually stayed through all of them, much to Stiles’ surprise.

The moon was high in the sky now; full and shining.

(Just in case, he’d gotten up during a lull in the movie earlier, and finished off the protective mountain ash circle – which was an incredibly useful discovery. It would also stop the Creepers (Derek and his lot, when he got them) from jumping in his window whenever they want. Which is a plus. - around the inside of the house. Nothing supernatural was killing Lydia, or his dad, or himself, because nothing would get in without Stiles’ express permission. At least. He hoped. )

He sat down and offered Lydia a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. She shrugged and took it from him, and they munched on them in silence as the credits rolled.

“What was that about Weasley?”

Lydia started fuming again, but neatly finished off her Reese’s Butter Cup before answering.

“They completely ruined his character. Not only did the Legolas effect hit Hermione tenfold, but she also got _tons_ of his _best, most character defining_ lines! They completely changed the dynamic of the Trio – because they, what, wanted to relegate Ron to comic relief? It didn’t work; I found myself disliking one of the characters I loved when I read the books. Completely illogical, I know, but still. The moments that define his and Harry’s friendship… gone, and now we’re stuck wondering why the boy wonder even puts up with the guy. It’s just – stupid. Illogical. Why would they do that? Hermione was plenty amazing and a good, female role model in the books; what was gained by making her impossible? It’s unfair, really it is.”

Stiles shrugged. “This is why I watch Star Wars. Less stupid. Still stupid, but less.”

She humped, and side-eyed him. “I could tell you all the plot holes in those, and we’d be here _hours.”_

He blinked at her. “You’ve watched them?” She raised an eyebrow. “Who hasn’t at least glimpsed part while someone else is watching?” He narrowed his eyes at her non-answer disguising an answer (which is weird and confusing) before shrugging. “Scott.”

It was Lydia’s turn to look confused. “Wait – so that _isn’t_ an inside joke between you two? He literally has not seen a single Star Wars movie?”

Stiles shook his head. “No, not one. No star trek, no star gate, no harry potter… nothing. Not even Buffy, or Angel or whatever else’s gaining dust over there.” He jerked his head in the direction of the shelves.

“He, well, hasn’t really seen much of anything. No Wolfman, no Shining, no anything.”

“Wolfman?” She asked.

He stared. “You too? Am I the only one who’s seen this movie?!” he demanded of no-one, flopping back into the chair.

A smile quirked at Lydia’s lips, but before she could say anything, the doorbell rang. (Apparently, whoever it was, was too impatient as they immediately started banging on the door.)

Stiles and Lydia exchanged glances, and both of them got up to answer the door, something uneasy settling in Stiles’ gut that seemed to affect Lydia as well, somehow.

When Stiles opened it, no-one was there.

Lydia and Stiles stepped out, and Stiles noticed something was missing pretty much instantaneously.

“My jeep!” He cried out, staring in horror at the place it had been. Lydia turned, hearing something he couldn’t, and moved towards the gate to the backyard.

(Neither of them were wearing shoes. It was cold out, they noted, but not enough for them to care.)

Stiles stared despairingly at the place where his Roscoe should be parked, as Lydia warily stepped over to the gate.

It opened, silent, and she glanced behind her.

Stiles was still staring, but now it seemed less like despair or horror or anything of the sort; it seemed more like a trance.

Lydia turned around, and moved the final metre that would mean she was in the backyard.

(A howl ripped across the night; one of Anger and Domination. Another followed quick, one of mournful fear and resignation. Another, no less strong than the first but only slightly older than the latter called too; this time, to warn.)

Across the town a young wolf was being subdued, another was helping but not joining and the eldest was the Alpha. A girl in a dress with a quiver full of arrows dipped in paralytic toxin was keeping a False Deputy ‘occupied’, while a more sinister foe was biding his time, as the lesser one was waging war.

A reptilian hiss joined the chorus, and the moon shined high in the sky, bright as ever…

And completely full.

* * *

_Luna; Lunacy._

_Madness._

_‘The moon always brings out the crazies. It’s where we get the word lunatic.’_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I'd get this up Monday... I minute after midnight still counts, right?


	4. Medical Leave Means Stiles Doesn't Know Shit (And Thus It Is Annoying To Write.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Season two, episode three, Ice-Pick.   
> Stiles and Lydia share some more hallucinations. Allison is paralysed, Deaton is confronted. Danny actually does something. It's all novel stuff here, folks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Sorry it's been a month-ish.   
> (Not Beta-edited.)

Stiles jerks awake.

Blinking, the teen looks around himself, clambering to his feet then spinning slowly in a circle.

 _I’m in the preserve._ He thinks. _Holy fuck Dad’s gonna kill me._

Stiles wonders if he was sleep walking again; even if it hasn’t happened in about half a decade, that doesn’t mean it won’t start happening again, considering the incredible amount of stress his is ready and willing to admit (if only to himself) he is currently going through. What with the whole supernatural shit that’s trying to kill him and his friends business going on… it’s honestly not that surprising.

Stiles hears the cracking of twigs on the ground and the rustling of leaves as a branch is pushed out of the way. Flinching, he spins around, and takes note of the circular clearing he appears to be in.

Lydia crashes through the tree line, cursing in a very un-lydia like manner, her hair a mess and her (designer, obviously) shoes missing, her clothes ripped and dirty.

Looking down at himself, Stiles realises he’s actually in worse shape, if that were possible – considering he’s missing the entirety of his t-shirt (and that one was vintage batman, god-damnit), and the calves of his pyjama bottoms. At least his socks were miraculously unharmed, if in dire need of a wash.

Lydia looked up at him, dazed, blinked a few times before looking down. She sighed in relief, and Stiles winced at how loud it sounded to his ears.

(As if he’d suddenly gained super senses for a few seconds, which was highly unlikely. Hopefully.)

But then the sounds of the preserve were back to normal volume, and he wasn’t experienced enough at lip reading to know what she muttered next.

(Lydia was still staring at him. Well, staring straight ahead, which happened to be where he was, even if her gaze would be below shoulder height.)

The girl stumbled forwards, blinking again. Her eyes were now as sharp as ever, a bright forest green.

Stiles realised he’d caught her, somehow, even though he’d been on the other side of the frickin’ clearing and it should have been _impossible_ for his running ability to have gotten him across the distance that quickly.

(Bright, forest green, brimming with intelligence. He was staring. Crap.)

Stiles coughed, and helped her stand back up straight, before hastily letting go, then rubbing his hand on the back of his head nervously.

(Lydia’s eyes tracked the movement, then proceeded to stare a little too intently at the boy’s face.)

“Uh. Lydia.” Stiles started, then looked around. “…Fancy seeing you. Here. In the preserve. Whilst I’m missing a shirt.” The teen stopped himself from continuing and embarrassing himself any further.

Lydia was still unresponsive.

“Right.” Stiles muttered to himself. “Great. Fugue state. Again. Crap.” He looked to Lydia, whose eyes were following some unseen object, moving up and down at a fast rate. “Woah, Lydia.” Stiles placed his hands onto her shoulders. Stiles breathed, in, closed his eyes, then out. He opened them. “ _Wake up.”_

Lydia jumped backwards, blinking rapidly. The teen shook her head, then seemed to realise her surroundings. “Wait –” She started, then spun on the spot. “What.” The girl genius finished; as confused as Stiles at that moment in time. “I have no idea.” Stiles told her, and the girl _shrieked,_ jumped backwards and stared at him.

Stiles stumbled, clutched his ears.

(There was a smear of blood on the palm of his right hand.)

Lydia took in a breath, sharp and quick and at his side in seconds. With shaking hands she took his in hers and looked them over, noting the smear of blood. She looked to him, green meeting whiskey brown and he nodded. The girl gently turned his face, and in his peripheral vision Stiles saw her grimace, and shoot an apologetic glace his way. “Bad?” the boy asked simply, and Lydia replied. “Bleeding.”

 _Well._ Lydia sighed, then let go of his head and his hand. She looked around again, and sighed dramatically, folding her arms in an overly annoyed manner.

Stiles raised an eyebrow, ignoring the throbbing pain in his ears. “What?” She glanced back at him, sighed again. “Would it have been too much to ask to have been deposited at the stump thing or the house?”

Stiles looked around the dark clearing, suddenly and jarringly realising the time and the pitch-blackness of the area. Instinctively he grabbed Lydia’s hand, so as not to lose her in the darkness. The teen wasn’t sure, but he figured Lydia must have noticed the lack of lighting, because she didn’t yank her hand away; in fact she held tighter.

Glancing at each other, the two turned and started walking in a random direction.

(There’s an end to this preserve; the place is surrounded by Beacon Hills. They’d get home eventually.)

* * *

Allison panted, hard, and with a final _tug_ the arrow cut through the rope, and her hands were free.

Scrambling to her feet, legs numb and arms numb from hours of being in the same position; an uncomfortable one at that. Rolling her shoulders and wincing at the _crack_ of stiff joints, Allison looked around what seemed to be Derek’s – well, the Hale family’s old house. Allison grimaced and then froze. Almost a fortnight – oh, god, had it only been that long? – ago, in this very same building, her Aunt – the serial killing, actual paedophile, which; gross – had been murdered right in front of her.

By Peter Hale.

(For some reason, that felt significant.)

Allison spotted a bow on the table, worn and old but still just about usable, at the exact same time she heard a _crash_ come from outside.

She’d grabbed it and the quiver, loaded an arrow before she recognised the female shriek and the male slightly-panicked yelling. Allison then _sprinted_ outside, as if her life – or, well, the lives of her friends – depended on it.

(Knowing her family, knowing the types of people they hire… it very well might.)

Allison burst out of the front door, bowstring drawn tight and arm steady and everyone in the clearing in front of the house turned to stare at her.

Stiles was holding some form of small branch as a weapon, Lydia was standing slightly behind him holding a small yet sharp and painful looking rock, and the hunter that she’d seen at the gas station was using his open car door as cover, pointing his gun at the two teens through the rolled-down window’s opening.

“Allison!” Lydia and Stiles called, relief flooding their tense expressions. The hunter did not relax; she’d commend him if he wasn’t pointing deadly weaponry at her…

Was Stiles wearing pyjama pants? What?

“What is going on.” Allison demanded, proud of her calm demeanour.

She pointed her bow at the hunter, and surprise flashed across his face for a moment. The man lowered his gun. “They snuck up on me, is all.” He told her, and Allison couldn’t help the slight laugh. “Stiles?” She asked him, slightly incredulous. “You got snuck up on by _stiles.”_ The man obviously had no idea how much of a failure of a hunter he was being at that moment. She would have pitied him; but then again, he had almost shot her friends. Stiles looked amused, and Lydia looked annoyed – so everything on that front was at least mostly normal.

(Aside from the fact that they were here at all in the first place, but hey. Allison will take what she can get, and deal with all this shit later.)

“Put the gun down.” She demanded, and the older man, possibly in his twenties but she wasn’t sure, turned the gun’s safety on then threw it onto the passenger seat of his car. “Happy?” He asked her. “No.” She told him flatly. “I was tied up in the same building where I watched my Aunt be murdered, where I discovered my Aunt was a serial killer, where I helped with my first kill – one Peter Hale – and where I almost murdered my ex-boyfriend. _I am not in any way, shape, or form ‘happy’._ ”

For dramatic effect (as there would have been no other reason) Allison shot an arrow and it grazed past his ear, nicking it and drawing blood but doing no more than that. “Next time,” she started, “Don’t leave the archer a bow with which to shoot.” And with that, she ignored the man, lowered her bow and hurried to her friends.

Stiles looked dazed, Lydia was more alert. Allison could tell, however, that the arm around his waist was to support her as much as it was to support him, and Stiles’ arm was slung across her shoulder, the branch hanging limply from his left hand. Lydia grimaced and dropped her rock, adjusting the way she was holding onto Stiles to a way that was more to support him than anything else. “Allison.” She greeted calmly, grabbing onto Stiles’ right hand and pulling his arm tighter around her shoulders. “Lovely night, isn’t it?” Allison stayed silent for a moment, before replying. “What are you doing out here?”

Lydia sighed, put out. “Don’t you think I’d tell you if I knew that?” The girl grunted, then nudged Stiles with her elbow. “Wake _up._ ” She muttered, but Stiles did not respond.

(if Lyds were the type to growl, Allison bets she would have at that moment.)

The strawberry-blond scowled, and that was so very far out of character that Allison almost felt whiplash. “Can you punch him in the face a few times please?” She asked Allison pleasantly, as if she were only asking Allison to pass the butter at dinner time. “Uhm, no?” The huntress refused, frowning at the third teen. “What’s up with him?” Lydia turned her head, glared at Stiles’ unconscious form. “Fugue state.” She told Allison, tone clipped and words short. “I’ll help.”

As Allison went to take Stiles’ arm, many things happened at once.

Firstly, she did in fact feel whiplash; however, she also felt the prick of something at her neck. Lifting her hand sluggishly, she felt it, and her nail dug into the open wound.

Hissing, Allison dropped to the floor.

Lydia and Stiles felt their necks as well, but neither of them lost the ability to move.

Unlike Allison.

( _At least Stiles is out of his fugue state now,_ she thought, optimistically.)

Distantly, she realised she was being lifted into the car, and that Lydia had taken… if her memory serves her correctly the other hunter’s gun off of the passenger seat, then sat in it.

Allison heard the roar of an engine, the hiss of a reptile –

_Haven’t I heard that before?_

\- and promptly passed out.

* * *

When Allison came to, she was in the Animal Clinic, lying down on one of the tables.

“She’s awake.” A male voice said softly. A hand squeezed hers, and Scott’s blurry face came into view. Allison blinked a few times, and her vision cleared.

Scott was smiling down at her, a small relieved thing that warmed her heart as cliché as that might sound. “Hey.” He said quietly, and she responded in kind. “Hi, Scott.”

The door opened, and three people walked in – two of them better dressed than when she had last seen them. Dr. Deaton came first, followed by Lydia and then by a now appropriately attired Stiles.

“You both look better.” She commented. Lydia smiled at her again. “I lost another pound. Mom’s getting worried, and why wouldn’t she, so I insisted we all go out for a meal; after ice skating, of course.” Allison smiled.

 _May she never change._ “Of course.”

Stiles pulled himself up easily into a sitting position on one of the counters, and didn’t even move a single muscle when Dr. Deaton looked at him disapprovingly. The adult then turned, and spoke. “It seems the venom has worn off.” He told Allison. “You should be fine now, so long as this doesn’t become a habit.” Stiles raised an eyebrow, and Dr. Deaton elaborated. “This venom seems as if it is not something you grow an immunity to with prolonged exposure. Too many doses, and the subject may end up with… some side effects.”

As Stiles obviously understood how vague and unhelpful this man was going to be, he changed the topic. “Because you’re such an expert. Anyway – you feeling okay?” He asked suddenly, and Allison nodded. “Yeah, I feel fine. “Good.” And with that, the teen dropped off of the table, and left the room.

With a flick of her hair and the _clack_ of her heels, Lydia followed suit, taking out her phone and dialling what Allison assumed to be her mother.

( _Odd._ )

Scott took her hand and helped her off the table (and whilst she could have done it herself perfectly fine it was a sweet gesture; she’d take that over nothing any day.)

“You ready to go?” he asked, and she replied. “I’m more worried about how my father’s going to react, to be honest.”

And with that, the teens were all gone from the clinic, and as the door swung shut behind the couple, a man stepped out from the back room.

“I’m just as intrigued, I do have to admit.”

Deaton turned around, calm and stoic as ever.

“Alan.” The man greeted, his smile white and threatening.

“Argent.” The Doctor replied. “What may I do for you?”

Chris’ smile stayed, unnerving. “A hunter of ours turned up dead during the night.” He told Deaton. “Similar M.O. to my daughter.”

The man stepped aside, and gestured to Deaton’s office. “I think it’s time we have a… discussion, don’t you?”

Alan inclined his head, and walked to his door.

The Argent stopped him short, smile gone. “If my daughter gets harmed in any way by your reluctance, you will feel worse pain than anything you have felt already or could _believe_ , Alan. I hope we are clear on this.” The ‘pleasant’ smile was back, and he stopped blocking Deaton’s path. “Shall we?”

The man pushed the door open, and walked in. The ‘Vet’ followed suit, closing and locking his office’s door behind him.

(All noise emanating from that room was strangely muffled; none of it was properly audible.)

Wednesday afternoon came and went, and Thursday morning arrived.

* * *

Stiles slammed his hand down onto his alarm more forcefully than he’d intended, but it had the same effect of pressing snooze so his sleep-addled brain ignored it, and he resumed sleeping.

An hour or so later, and the Sheriff was shaking his son awake.

“Stiles, son wake up.” His tone was urgent, and it took a moment but Stiles did indeed wake; his eyes fluttered open than snapped open and stayed that way at his dad’s expression. “Dad…?” He asked, the teen’s voice muffled by a yawn.

“Sit up” the Sheriff commanded, and Stiles did so, a guiding hand holding gently onto his shoulder.

Stiles glance to his alarm, and _balked._

The object was smashed to pieces, bits of it over the side table, had spilled over onto the floor and the bed. His hand was in the mess, but it wasn’t injured; not even a single sharp edge had nicked his skin and drawn blood…

Despite the fact the whole scene was just plain _covered_ in it.

Stiles snatched his hand away, and looked at it, turning it over and back again, yet seeing not a single mark or blemish; not even any bruising.

“Stiles, are you alright?” His dad asked, and on autopilot Stiles responded “I’m fine.”

The worry (and Stiles adamantly refused to label ‘fear’) changed to slight anger; _a Stilinski’s response if anything was_ , Stiles thought humorously. At least when one had nothing else they could resort to, in order to fix things.

“Damnit Stiles, you smashed your alarm clock, your hand is fine but there’s blood everywhere, and could you just _tell me what’s going on!?”_ His dad demanded, voice rough and louder than normal pitch.

Stiles looked up at him. For a while (A while to Stiles, at any rate; he hadn’t taken his Adderall yet) they stayed there, silent.

The Sheriff gave up. He shook his head, opened then closed his mouth. Left the room.

(Stiles stayed seated on the bed, stayed in the same seating position his dad had helped him into. He stared after, but didn’t call.

(Nothing could fix this. Nothing he was willing to do or to say could repair this relationship. Stiles is as sure of that as he is of the fact that he himself is the reason his mom’s dead.))

Stiles is trying to fix the wheels of his office chair ( _why are they so stuck, anyway? And what’s with the hairline fracture?)_ When his text tone rings.

It’s Scott. Frantically, Stiles grabs the phone, says hello, but it turns out that it wasn’t so important he needed to drop what he was doing; just Scott asking if he could borrow sixty for a deal he’s making with Boyd; Scott, Lydia, Allison and Stiles are going to the ice-rink after-hours on Friday, after all, and they can’t just break in.

(It’s unethical. Scott says so. In Stiles’ opinion, Scott’s getting a crap deal and _that’s_ what’s unethical, and It’s not like Stiles can’t just pay ten to have them for a few _minutes,_ then clone the things and have unlimited access. But no. _That’s unethical._ Scott repeats, and with a sigh Stiles drops sixty out the window.)

Scott comes by a few minutes later, grabs the sixty and leaves without saying hello; Stiles knows this because he heard the rustling of the grass and adamantly refuses to admit that that should be impossible, and instead takes it as Scott’s way of letting him know.

(Otherwise it’s just _rude._ )

 

* * *

 

Nothing much else happens that day, except for the fact that Stiles finds a website that’s _actually fucking useful for once, oh my god the luck,_ and makes an account.

 _Batman24_ isn’t the most inventive username he could have come up with, but it’ll do the job (And, since it isn’t that unique, he’s one of possibly – well, tens on this website, but _still._ It’d be harder to find mentions of him anyway.)

The instant he joins, he gets a message.

Stiles forgoes paranoia, and clicks on it.

_From: Admin Alpha_

_To: Batman24_

_Subject: Welcome, new user!_

_Hello there, Batman24 !_

_Welcome to a secret supernatural forum, only accessible from certain IP addresses. We have no name, simply so that it’s harder for others to find us; we wouldn’t want hunters crashing the party, after all._

Stiles grimaces, and agrees. _That would be bad._

The message continues on with more of the same, and stiles skim reads. It introduces the rules, which are pretty much the same as all other forums he’s been on, except that it links a new user guide to those who are new to the supernatural and would like help with how to interact with some of the less _human_ creatures.

Stiles learns that there’s not really any ‘werewolf culture’ (Not that he’d really expected any) except what would naturally come up with the whole Alpha, Beta, Omega thing, and that pack members, if they use the sign of revenge (the spiral he’d seen everywhere the first month or so of this shit) can do what they think is necessary to exact vengeance on those who wronged them.

(Considering this, Peter’s actions made a lot more sense; the crazy man was doing what he thought was within his rights. Stiles still thinks it was a bit too much though. Comes with being the son of a cop, he guesses.)

He also learns that there’s not really any sort of supernatural court or police or anything really; you have hunters, and you have the supernatural. That’s kind of it, and it’s kind of disappointing, to be honest with you.

And Stiles reads on.

(He learns a lot. He gets another message, but he ignores it for the time being.)

The next day comes, and Stiles feels a sense of foreboding.

_Well. That can’t be good._

Stiles looks around himself. Again, he’s in the preserve, or at least he seems to be. It’s day time, so if he is he’s been here _hours._

The boy checks his attire, and sighs in relief when he finds himself to be dressed appropriately for wandering through the woods in February during the night and early morning. He’s just glad he doesn’t feel cold.

Stiles thinks this might be a different clearing, and half expects Lydia to come tumbling out of nowhere again.

But she doesn’t.

Stiles shrugs, picks a random direction.

Walks.

* * *

It takes him an unknown length of time, but he emerges from the preserve right at the lacrosse field. Frowning, he looks around, but there seems to be no-one there.

Stiles looks curiously towards the school, and with one glance behind himself he moves calmly and quietly towards it.

It takes a few minutes, but Stiles arrives at the doors. With a gentle push, they give way, and he enters, still making no sound.

He hears crying, loud and crystal clear and _knows,_ deep in his _bones,_ that it’s Lydia.

One blink later and he’s in front of the girl’s bathrooms, and the door opens, and she’s there, drying her eyes.

(He wants to know who did this, who made her _cry._ He will, he _will burn them.)_

Stiles blinks, surprised and dazed, and snaps out of it.

Lydia blinks at him, he takes a step back. She looks up, and stares, before, as if in a trance, taking his hand and moving quickly.

The girl drags the other teen down the stairs and to the trophy cabinet.

They stare at what’s inside.

_Brrring!_

The school bell rings, and they stumble. Lydia lets out a small yelp, but it still manages to hurt his ears as if she’d screamed straight into them and the insides were made of fragile glass.

Stiles grabs onto her shoulder; she clutches his waist. They stand, let go, and turn around.

A crowd is staring at them.

“Crazies” someone mutters, and that makes everyone start moving.

(It’s one thing to think and stare, but apparently, it’s a whole other one to actually _say_ anything.)

Scott and the others (by which he means other, and by that he means Allison) hurry on over to the two teens, and look worriedly in their general direction. Lydia looks mutinous, Stiles figures he isn’t any happier expression-wise.

“Are you two okay?” Scott asks, while Allison looks on with pathos.

(Stiles hates the word _pity._ Anything is better than _pity,_ even something so incredibly pretentious.)

“Just fine” Lydia says with a smile, bright and faux-carefree. Neither buy it, and Stiles decides to walk off.

“Meet us at the ice rink at nine on Friday, remember!” Scott calls after him, and Stiles signals behind himself that he heard.

(And that his memory isn’t actually as bad as Scott’s, considering the fact it needs to be good enough to remember all the supernatural shit for two people.)

Stiles frowns, shakes his head. He opens the front door, and smacks it in some poor other junior’s face.

The guy grunts, stumbles backwards. Stiles winces, grimaces, and apologises. The teen waves a hand. “I was the one creeping about,” he said dryly. He looked up, eyes a shockingly blue colour.

The boy smiles. “I would say it’s nice to meet you Stilinski, but under the circumstances…” he gestured to his nose, which was _most definitely_ broken.

Stiles grimaced apologetically again. “Sorry, dude.” Again, the man dismisses it. “Doesn’t matter. Say, have you seen Martin around? I leant her a pen earlier… she hasn’t returned it.” The boy sighed. “Can’t really hold it against her though. What with the…” he hesitated, looked up at Stiles. “…fugue states, and all that.” Stiles pursed his lips then looked away. “Yeah well you’d be the first, I’d wager.” The other frowns, eyes piercing a spot just above Stiles’ shoulder.

“Yo, Laura!” he calls, then smirks at Stiles. “See you ‘round, Stilinski.”

He jogs off. Stiles doesn’t turn around and watch him go; rather, he simply leaves.

(If he had, he probably wouldn’t have seen the guy. After all, he’s a fast runner.)

Stiles lets the door shut behind him, and stares at the black Camaro rolling up to the school doors at a leisurely pace.

The teen rolls his eyes, about to simply ignore the werewolf inside, but stops still as a girl he swears he knows exits the car.

 _Erica._ He thinks. _What the fuck did you do Derek I am not in the mood._

(Stiles still hasn’t taken his Adderall. He blames his decisions on this fact.)

The girl walks past him, winks, then enters the school. Stiles glares at the car, and the window rolls down.

“Recognise her?” the man calls out, and Stiles _would_ growl if he were a werewolf, he was certain of it. “Oh yeah. I knew her.” The older male raises an eyebrow. “knew?” “Well, last time I saw her was a while ago; and frankly she wasn’t quite like _that.”_

Derek dropped the brow and smiled. _Creepy as last time, asshole. Creepier, if that’s possible._

Stiles sighed, suddenly tired. “Get out of here before you’re arrested again, idiot.” Rubbing his temple, the boy descended the stairs and set of in the direction of home. The car stayed exactly where it was. Stiles ignored it, and continued on.

* * *

They were at the ice rink, and Stiles was being pulled along by Lydia when it happened.

When they both saw wolfsbane planted in the ice, when he stood there motionless as Lydia moved towards it. Before she could pull it up or something equally stupid, ( _And she isn’t a stupid girl; but curiosity did kill the cat, and nothing can bring back the dead)_ Stiles was there, holding her back.

She stilled, looked up at him sharply, green eyes boring into whiskey, and he moved.

Wiped away the snow, and under they saw _it._

Peter’s crazy, messed up alter-ego wolf form. When he’d been an Alpha. When he’d been alive.

It was a burnt out husk; scarred and horrible, it’s throat ripped and open wide.

Stiles stared, Lydia moved forwards. She pulled up the plant, moved about in a spiral, then tossed it away. The beast changed form, back into peter as he had been before his death.

Lydia knelt down, brushed away the last of the snow.

_(How’d it get in here anyway?)_

Peter was still, then screamed, and Lydia was _screaming,_ and Stiles couldn’t hear _anything else-_

He blinked himself to awareness, lying flat on his back in the preserve.

Sitting up, the teen got off of the thing he had been lying down on, and turned around.

He stared, silent, and a voice whispered to him.

The teen placed his hand onto the nemeton…

Or would have, if another hand hadn’t stopped him. He turned his head, silent, and there the man was, dead but alive as ever.

 _Nothing can bring back the dead, son._ His dad had once told him. _She – She’s gone, and you’d better fucking get used to it._

(He’d been drunk at the time. Stiles figured he didn’t even remember most of those years.)

(If Stiles started believing it _could_ happen _, now,_ then he’d go crazy. Well. More than he already is at any rate.)

“Now now, Stiles.” The man murmured.

“Not yet.”

And with that, everything around him dimmed.

Stiles blinked, and was back in the ice rink, was back there, holding Lydia as she _screamed._

(His ears were bleeding. _He didn’t care.)_

* * *

 

Stiles sighs from the doorstep as his dad calls the car people.

(He’s tired, and he’s forgotten who they’re with, alright?)

The man turns to face his son. “They’ll be here soon. The person you’ve been going to did a number on this engine.” His father sighed, patting the hood. “Fixable, thankfully. You’d need a new one for it to run _well,_ though.” Stiles rubbed his face, and sighed. The Sheriff looks at his watch, and sighs as well, then looks at his son. “If I didn’t know any better,” the man said, “I’d say this car’s been crashed at least once, but that’s not _true,_ is it, Stiles?”

Stiles shakes his head. _I’ve never crashed it. Just… it’s been through the supernatural ringer._ “No.” He told his dad, honestly.

The man looks at him, and isn’t it a sad day when a father can’t tell if his son is lying or not anymore?

The Sheriff closes his eyes, shakes his head, then pockets his phone, and enters his car.

Stiles watches him go.

For a short while, he sits there, and then when they arrive watches the truck tow his jeep, his beloved Roscoe, back to the garage. For repairs.

 _More like a total overhaul,_ he thinks, snorting to himself.

Stiles enters the house, and hears the beeping, loud buzzing of the police radio he keeps in his room (as of recently, at least. He keeps it on him at all times usually, but what with the supernatural, he’s gotten lax.)

Stiles listens, hears of the attack. A man was killed in a ‘work accident’. The person on the radio can’t figure out why there’s a cut on his neck though. And now he’s being paralysed, _call back-up now._

He calls Scott.

He’s told to stay home, and he throws his phone at the wall in a surprising display of anger and it _smashes._

The teen stands there, and vibrates.

(He’s just so fucking done with being ‘ill’ and ‘in danger’, being the ‘weak’ one that it’s getting the better of him.)

 _Now,_ he thinks. _I actually get where Jackson was coming from, as horrible as that is to admit._

(Stiles is half-tempted to call them both (or at least Lydia) and tell them _everything,_ just so that he’s not the only human. If he didn’t think Allison would tell his dad in retaliation, he would have.)

* * *

 

The next day, there is radio silence, and this scares Stiles more than anything.

He takes more Adderall than necessary, and logs onto the Supernatural Forum he’d found the other day.

He sees the message; an innocent little one in a bubble over the mail symbol.

He clicks onto it.

_From:_

_To: Batman24_

_Subject: df214rfg;][k-r5i34tjh]_

_%.b- ^meesssage not fo$6n’D_

Stiles blinks, sighs, then grabs his phone.

(He has a tech genius to call.)

Half an hour after school had finished, the bell rings. Stiles jogs to the door, and opens it. Danny is standing there, a bemused expression on his face. “Stilinski.” He greets. “What is it this time?” Stiles grins, does an over the top motion of greeting. “Danny” he crows. “Just the hacker I needed.”

“What have you got this time?” Danny repeats, and Stiles sighs. “Have a look, then state your price.” The other teen nods, and goes up the stairs. Stiles takes the lead, opens his door and gestures Danny into his room. “On the computer.” He tells him. “Can you track the sender?” He asks.

Danny sits down, and reads the message. He frowns at the contents, before looking back at Stiles. “Are you sure it’s not the site’s error?” He asked, and while that is a legitimate question, _no Danny, of course not. What do you think?_ “Yes.” Stiles replied, more forceful than he’d intended. He coughed, and Danny looked at him weirdly.

Stiles rubbed the back of his head, shrugging. Danny sighed, and turned back to the computer. “The things I do…” he muttered, and Stiles quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t respond. “First Jackson,” he mutters, obviously deciding to up his price by offering information. _A pretty high price too,_ Stiles grimaced. _Giving information on Jackson is something he only does rarely._

_Or if he thinks his friend is in some form of trouble._

(Like the incident when they were younger, but that was then and this is now, and Jackson is and always has been a Jackass.)

Danny rolls his shoulders and pushes away from the computer a few minutes later. “Done. Surprisingly hard to track, but obviously not done by a professional.” Stiles nodded. “Payment?” He asked.

The boy spun the chair around to face Stiles, and considered his options for a moment.

Nodding to himself, he looked at Stiles. “What the fuck is going on with Jackson?” He asked, and considering his usual demeanour, Stiles is justified in his shock at the a) bluntness b) harshness and c) actual goddamn curiosity about the whole situation.

Stiles blinked, then sighed. “Do you really want to know?” He asked. “Yes. I probably won’t do anything,” he added to his affirmation, “but knowing would help.” Stiles inclined his head. “Fine. He was bitten by a werewolf and it isn’t changing him into one, but he isn’t dying either.”

The other boy nodded as if this was what he had expected. Stiles stared at him as if he were the crazy one. “What?” Danny asked. “Though I’ve lived here so long, it is after living in a normal place for a few years; the differences are obvious. There sure as hell weren’t _werewolves howling at the moon_ or whatever every other day there.”

Stiles blinked. “Oh.” He nodded, pulled his lips into his mouth and released them. “Okay then Danny-boy, if you’re such an expert, why’d you ask me?” Danny rolled his eyes. “I’m not an expert; just observant. It’d do you some good to learn how to be.” Stiles looked at him, offended. “You jump to conclusions, Stiles. Don’t think that the whole town doesn’t remember you and Scott blaming Hale for the killings when it was actually Argent.” Stiles grimaced. “Yeah, but to be fair no-one was handing out information; we did the best with what we could.”

“And it was Scott’s idea.” Danny added. “Lydia told me.”

Stiles nodded. “Right.” The other teen sighed. “I don’t know what’s happening with my friends; I don’t much want to be a part of all…” he seemed to struggle for words. “…This. It seems to get you killed, and I don’t really think mom or my sister and brother would be happy with that outcome.” He told Stiles. “And I hate saying this…” the boy hesitated. “but if you _and_ your friends need any hacking without questions, then…” he grimaced. “I’ll do it.”

Stiles shrugged. “Thanks man.” “Don’t mention it. And I mean that.” He told him. The other boy left the room, and Stiles stayed.

He looked at his computer, and saw the school’s IP address.

 _At least I’m back at school tomorrow._ He thought. He didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing at this point.

(He guesses bad. As much as he hates medical leave, at least he’s not nearly dying every two seconds.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. What do you guys think?


	5. Abomination.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott makes Deaton be less cryptic in very Scott ways, and so he tells stuff. Pretty much exactly like in canon, and so we don't get to see it.  
> Gerard is a douche to Allison during the timeframe of the 'episode' but we don't see that because this is from Stiles' third-person point of view, but since he's terrible to everyone and it would be the same as in canon you're not missing out.  
> Though I suppose there's other short POVs mixed in I guess you'll see.  
> And other stuff happens. I can't really say any more without spoilers, as you probably well know by now.

When Stiles arrives at school on foot the next day - because his Jeep was still in for repairs - he'd only just managed to make it in on time.

 _Walking that distance fucking sucks_ he grumbles mentally to himself, rather secretly proud he didn't like, pass out or vomit on the way over.

Stiles wasn't the best at strenuous physical activity, and it took him fifteen minutes to drive on a normal school run, (because of traffic and having to obey the laws and shit) so walking - 

Well. He had no fucking chance, since he'd never actually had to walk the route before.

Stiles saw Scott's crappy bike in the bike rack and was glad he wasn't skiving to deal with goddamn Creepy McSourwolf and his uselessness or have a date with Allison because 1) both of those options are ridiculous right now and 2) he kinda maybe needs to talk to his friend so there's that.

And Stiles knows for damn certain he'd be left behind for his 'own good' (fucking 'ill' as he supposedly is, but hell he feels  _fine_ so they need to stop,  _seriously_ ) if the first option was the case, and Scott would be completely wrapped up in sappy romance land if he were with Allison so, you know.

Stiles pushes open the doors to the school, and just like the other day it smacks into that very same juniors face.

Stiles sighs, exasperated. The other teen laughs, having luckily avoided breaking his face on the door or something. 

"We really need to stop meeting like this," the other boy starts. "Even Martin only gives me the cold shoulder."

Instinctively, Stiles replies, "Well, she does that to most people. Don't think you're special, or anything."

The other boy grins, lopsided, and shakes his head. "Ouch, Stilinski. Hurt a guy's feelings, why don't you." 

Stiles frowns at him. What was his name, again?

The other boy glances down at his wrist, and a watch is there that Stiles hadn't noticed before.

_Crap. Need to brush up on those observational skills, Stilinski. Can't be slacking now, werewolves and their shit exists._

The fellow junior curses, before looking up. "Well, gonna have to dash. I have a guidance counsellor's appointment to get to." and he turns around on the spot, damn near pirouettes dramatically and goes through the doors, throwing both of them open wide.

 _Drama queen._ Stiles thinks. He shakes his head, and goes to homeroom.

* * *

 

"Dude." Scott murmurs to him when he's seated. Actually, more like halfway through homeroom, but that's just semantics. 

"Are you okay?" He asks, and Stiles has the urge to  _break his fucking desk in half,_ but one - that would be stupid, not to mention expensive, and two -  _what the fuck. Why._

Instead, he smiles and inclines his head enough for Scott to see, because their homeroom teacher isn't like the rest and doesn't just ignore all of their 'quietly' whispered conversations.

Speaking of those, their little group is gonna have to find better places than class and the boy's locker rooms because Christ, that shit is gossip central. It's a wonder people don't think them crazy yet.

Scott nods, and the hawk-eyed teacher narrows in on this, but - thankfully - does nothing and continues droning on about whatever school news is -

_'And more cameras have been installed; all empty classrooms and utility-"_

_Wait, what?_  

Stiles flicks his eyes over to Scott, who murmurs "Gerard's installed cameras everywhere. There's no way we can get away with conversations about stuff now." and Stiles nods, because -

God no, they're screwed. Fucked. No options, game over.

Well. Maybe not that bad levels of not-good-shit-happening, but it's pretty bad, because school is the only place they can easily meet up, but with cameras everywhere there's no way that's gonna be easy.

Of course, they have phones, but with Scott's track record it'd probably be easier to yell his name (angrily, or in an annoyed manner, or kindly whatever take your pick) than to text or call, in order to get his attention. 

The bell rings, and Stiles picks up his bag, and the two of them head to chemistry. 

* * *

 

Stiles looks flatly at Scott. "No." He says, simply.

Scott looks like a wounded puppy. As Stiles has thought many a time, it is unfair. 

"No?" He asks. "No." Stiles replies.

Again, the puppy dog eyes. Stiles sighs, and Scott drops the act. Because he is literally the worst best friend and Stiles should be used to his tricks by now.

"Once I'm outside those double doors, call me. I'm not running around like some idiot messenger whilst unpaid, thank you very much." Stiles mutters to his friend as he fakes a wave, and walks off. 

Scott waves back, then seems to remember why they have to keep up appearances, get's this little 'oh', expression and pretends to muck around with his locker until stiles leaves. 

Scott goes into the boy's bathroom and hides in one of the stalls, puts the phone on low volume and prepares to whisper into the mic part of it.

Scott is taking no chances with this. Gerard - he's dangerous. He's a very old hunter, and Scott thinks that means he's survived a lot of scuffles with the supernatural in his life.

* * *

 

Stiles sat down next to Allison, who smiled at him in greeting. "Stiles." She said, and he nodded before fishing out his phone from his jacket and placing it on the table, then leaning forwards on his elbows, glaring at the thing.

Allison raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. The phone rang, and Stiles immediately answered it, put it on speaker phone with the volume low. 

"Stiles, Allison are you there?" Scott's voice whispers through the crackly static of a sup-par connection.

Allison's face dawns with understanding. "Oh. Hey, yeah we're here." 

Stiles stopped glaring at the innocent phone. "So what is is Scotty?"

Scott sighed. "In a sec - quick question; Allison, are you coming to the game tonight?" 

Stiles dropped his head onto the table, with a  _thunk._ Allison stifled an amused smile, and replied. "Of course, Scott."

"Good." He replied, the edge of relief bleeding into his tone. "Good. Right - I visited Deaton's Clinic this morning before it opened... you know, because he obviously knows a lot more than he lets on." Scot explained. Stiles lifted his head from the table.

Allison smiled down at the phone. "Right." Stiles said drily, and Scott took that as his cue to continue. 

"So, we had a small chat - where he basically confirmed what we know already; that he's involved some how, and that the Argents are hunters so it makes sense they'd have a - book, or something, on all the creatures they've met? Beast - something." Scott told them.

Yeah, that makes sense. but, "Bestiary, Scotty. A bestiary; a book on creatures. Various creatures." 

"Don't you mean-""-Bestiality?" Scott and Allison said, at the same time.

Stiles heard stifled laughter on Scott's end, and Allison laughed, covering her mouth slightly with her hand. 

"No. No I don't, I am entirely certain what I mean here. A bestiary is like an encyclopedia of mythical creatures... and I don't know what's going on in your heads but you might want to get that looked at." He tells them, flatly. 

"How am I the only one who doesn't know anything about this stuff. And gross, Stiles." Scott complained. 

"Hey, you were the one that brought it up," Stiles defended himself. "Also - you're my best friend, you're a creature of the night, it's kind of like a priority of mine; knowing this sort of stuff." Allison winced, slightly. "If it makes you feel better, Scott - I probably know way less than you do." She says. 

Stiles looks at her flatly, as if to say ' _really, Allison?'_ and she shrugs. "I mean - being heir to the Argent hunting thing, you'd think they'd teach me." With a wary glance for any security cameras, she adds, "Honestly though... is it bad that I'm glad they don't?"

Stiles shakes his head, and Scott says. "Of course not Allison."

"Think of it this way - you won't be brainwashed into the 'all supernaturals are evil; kill them' way of thinking, y'know, sans family training." Stiles points out. 

Allison winces but then has a pondering look on her face, and Scott hisses " _Stiles"_ into the phone. 

Stiles grimaces and shrugs. He looks away, and sees Lydia, sitting with the flannel-shirted and skinny jean-ed other junior from earlier.

Stiles thinks that he really does need to learn that guys name. He's seen him around a lot, lately. 

Allison says to Scott, "I can see if there's a book, or usb with like a - pdf, or something at home. Unlikely, though - maybe it's in his office?" and Stiles hears affirmation, something about himself looking during the game ( _thanks, Scotty_ ) but doesn't really pay attention, and keeps staring at the two juniors under the tree.

Allison finishes finalising things with Scott, then looks at him and over to where he's looking. In his peripheral vision, he sees that she gets this weird look on her face; part pity, sadness and confusion. 

Stiles raises an eyebrow in her direction. She looks away, then down to the phone. 

"Lydia's alone." She tells Scott, and there's something like guilt in her voice. 

Stiles figures she means 'Lydia's without her closest friend and that girl's friends' because the other junior is quite obviously sitting right there. So.

"...yeah." Scott says. "That -" he pauses, and Stiles doesn't really understand where the dudes coming from right now. 

"Go talk to her." He says, possibly continuing, possibly changing track, they'll never know. 

"Yeah, sure." Stiles says, and there's this crackle on the other end of the line. Allison looks troubled.

"Ehm." Scott deliberates. "No, Stiles." 

Stiles blinks, confused. "No?" He asks, incredulous. "What do you mean, no?" 

"I - " Scott goes silent, and Stiles can tell that this is difficult for him to say.

"Leave Lydia some space, alright?"

There's a pause. Stiles feels inexplicably angry. 

"Yeah. Sure _fine_ , whatever." He mumbles. The less audible his voice, he thinks, the easier it would be to stop that escaping into his tone.

"Look it's just -" Scott pauses, then ploughs on, "Whenever you two are around each other, fugue states start kinda... happening."

Stiles would like to correct him, because he's been in a totally different place from her and had that shit trigger. But he doesn't, because when he wakes up Lydia's there anyway, so maybe there's some truth in Scott's theory.

It's shit though. Stiles  _despises_ it. 

And Stiles says nothing. 

Allison looks apologetic for no reason he can discern, and she gets up and goes to Lydia.

(In the time that conversation took, the other guy's left. This is normal behaviour; He's probably got other engagements to deal with. At least he's giving Lydia the time of day; Stiles feels reasonably guilty for the Allison-imposed and him-kind-of-supported distance.)

(And by reasonably guilty... well, the meaning of that's relative to the list of things he feels guilt for. And. Well.

That's a long list. And all it does is keep getting longer.)

* * *

 

The rest of the school day goes by pretty uneventfully, if Stiles can say so himself, so he knows that shit's gonna go down, tonight, because they never ever have a break unless it's the calm before yet another storm.

Since it's lacrosse tonight, the school stays open after hours (it doesn't normally; there's this place that those who have late-shift parents can stay nearby, if they don't already have a house key and therefore can just go home) to let lacrosse players get in a little more practice. Most go home, but Stiles has that message to worry about, so he stays behind for once. Scott frowns, but Stiles waves him off because he's  _fine, don't worry Scotty,_ and then goes in the direction of the library. 

He arrives, and it's pretty empty, but then he wasn't expecting anything close to crowded.

But he was expecting more than just himself and the other flannel-shirted junior from earlier. 

Stiles hoped he hadn't sent that stupid message. That would suck, for one, and for two he'd actually have to deal with the guy. 

Which would also suck. Terribly so. 

Still, Stiles wandered over to the computers and sat down at one.

"Stilinski." The guy greeted in reply. Stiles didn't know his name, yet or really ever wanted to so he nodded. "Fancy seeing you here. Staying for the lacrosse game?" the other guy asked.

Irritably, because Stiles  _knows_ he's trying to distract him on purpose for some reason, 

"Considering I'm on the team, yeah." he says, drily. The other boy raises an eyebrow.

"Really?" He asked. "Me and my nephew - yeah, long story - were on the basketball team back home." The guy tells him, and as much as its  _really interesting_ Stiles could actually not give any less fucks, because that would be in the negative of how much he cares right now. 

"Right." Stiles replies, disinterested. The other guy shakes his head and chuckles, and Stiles could have  _sworn_ his blue eyes flashed like Scott's do sometimes. 

Okay, so Scott's maybe do that a lot, but it's fine, because he's gotten the hang of them not doing that during terrible times for them to do the werewolf flashy thing, so it's good.

They're all fine.

"What're you looking for?" He asks, and Stiles shrugs, finds himself saying "Prank message," easy as pie. "Looking for who sent it, is all."

"Why?" The guy asks, eyes mischievous. "Curiosity." Stiles replies.

"Curiosity killed the cat, Stiles." The guy warns, and Stiles raises an eyebrow. There's a challenge in that, he knows, he can tell.

Why, how, those are things he can't answer.

"Lucky I'm not one then, yeah?" Stiles quips back, rhetorically, before continuing.

" _You're on the wrong computer."_ He hears, whispers on the wind that sound suspiciously like the other junior and he turns his head but the door to the library swings shut, and he's alone again.

Stiles stills his hands on the keyboard, and looks at the screen of the guy's computer.

It's the supernatural forum website. The section is sent messages, and there it is, clear as day, the one he'd gotten that made no sense but now, suddenly, understand perfectly.

 _Of course it is._ Stiles thinks, already weary of it. 

_Fuck my life._

* * *

 Stiles takes a walk after unplugging the computers (leave no trace, leave no trace and the CCTV hadn't finished being installed in the library yet) and putting them back in again.

Of course, coach finds him so he ends up training (terribly) for the rest of the evening. 

Until the match, of course. 

It starts playing out exactly as expected, except Stiles can see that godforsaken junior staring (kinda very creepily( at Lydia, in Stiles' peripheral vision. Lydia leaves, and he's unsure why, and so does the junior.

But Stiles has work to do. He'll figure that out later. And so, he gets up, and takes the keys from Allison as previously planned (in a very discrete manner, if he says so himself.) 

When he's crossing the car park he sees Lydia, of course, but he remembers the promise he made to her best friend and thinks he can't really do anything.

Besides, the juniors already comforting her. So it's not his place anyway. 

Stiles runs off, and he enters the CCTV room (hopefully discretely in the dark) and turns them off with a cloth he'd found over his hand. 

He pockets the cloth. Leave no evidence.

Stiles knows he doesn't have long so he hurries on over to the Principal's office, and has a quick look around. There's nothing there, of course, so he texts Allison and leaves the room -

 _Ah, crap._ He thinks, as he sees Erica Reyes in all her 'glory'. 

"Hello, Stiles." She greets, and he grimaces. 

 "Hey, Erica." He replies. "Can I just... go back to the game or-?" She looks at him flatly.

Stiles winces. "Yeah, okay, wishful thinking. Where are we going?" He asks. She grabs him by the arm and starts to drag him, but he wrenches it away.

They're both a little surprised he could do that, considering her werewolf strength, but Stiles ignores it in favour of asking, nicely, "Where. Are. We. Going?" 

Okay, maybe it wasn't exactly nice, but Erica relents either way. "Derek wants to talk to you -"  _interrogate, more like,_ Stiles mentally scoffs. "- he's waiting at the swimming pool." 

"Swimming pool?" Stiles says drily, and Erica shrugs. It's clear she thinks as much of the chosen place as he does.

"Right,  _fine."_ Stiles acquiesces. "Let's go."

And they do. Erica a little behind him, so he can't turn around and run off, but considering her werewolf-ness, he's very unlikely too anyway.

_I mean. Pain. That would end up being very likely if I did - considering her teacher._

* * *

Stiles arrives at the pool, and Derek's there with a basketball which he's obviously going to try to use to intimidate him.

Derek has a very predictable formula, and it usually ends up with a few dead people. Not always his fault, Stiles knows this - but the guy jumps to conclusions and doesn't think things through, and Stiles for the life of him cannot respect a guy that does that.

Or, you know, is an adult that attacks minors. Scott told him how lucky he was that he'd managed to avoid being sliced to ribbons on the ice rink the night that was most likely when Boyd got bitten.

Oh yeah. Boyd got bitten. As Stiles has said before; Medical leave sucks. You miss all the important happenings.

"Stiles." Derek greets.

"What?" He says, flat and irritable. 

(He's been feeling that a lot more often lately. Maybe he should tone down on the Adderall... since that is one of it's side effects.)

(He won't though. Stiles is stupid like that.)

Derek looks unimpressed. Stiles gives zero fucks about this whole situation. 

"What did you see that night?" He asks, and hello, which night?

"Oh, I don't know. You asking about the night my friend got bit, the night I wandered the preserve, the night you got punched to pieces-"

Erica looks a little surprised. Stiles isn't; he knows Derek would have tried to make himself seem invincible. By warping events to suit his need, as an alpha, to be the 'Strong, tough leader' type.

Stiles has researched werewolves on the forum. It was very helpful.

(Not in the fact he's behind on Chemistry homework, but he could give that shit his all, get everything perfectly right and he'd still get a D.)

(Harris is an evil, evil man.)

"Shut up." Derek near growls, and  _wow,_ _that's 'super scary'._

_Idiot._

"Nope." Stiles replies. "How about the night you tricked Scott into thinking there was a cure for lycanthropy - where you kill the alpha that bit you? And therefore tricked him into helping you kill-"

" _Shut up."_ Derek growled, eyes flashing red. The basket ball is now utterly useless.

"- you uncle - who was very, very evil and very, very much deserved it - so that you could become the Alpha? Is that the night your asking about,  _Derek?_ "

Stiles folds his arms and holds his head up, defiant. 

Erica is looking rightly confused - and perhaps, a little angry - now. Stiles is glad that this is working. 

There's a hiss above them, reptilian, and Stiles knows this his.

"You could have just asked about that guy." He throws a gesture in it's direction. "Would have avoided this whole mess."

Stiles feels less worried than he should, right about now. 

The thing jumps down and slices Erica on the back of the neck. Cursing, stiles grabs her. 

A second later, the same thing happens to Derek. "for fucks sake." he thinks, and has to have both werewolves weights on his shoulders. They hobble along. 

The creature hangs back, avoids the pools. Stiles looks at it, sees what it's doing. See's it's eyes... i'ts almost like it recognises him, somehow. Stiles feels the cogs whirring in his head. 

"What is going on?!" Erica demands, weakly. "I thought - you said -" 

"Erica, shut up." Derek demands. And wow,  _rude, dude. That's not very nice to your beta._

"What is it doing?" Derek demands, unable to move his head to look. Stiles chances a glance. It's staying as far away from the water as possible.

"Not a fucking clue, man." He replies, weary. 

"Call - call Scott." Derek demands. "He won't answer." Stiles replies absently. "He's probably with Allison as we speak-"

"Call. Scott." Derek demands again. "I'll have to drop one of you if I do that." Stiles explains, flatly. "And it sure as hell isn't going to go well for me if I drop either of you." 

There's a pause. 

"Drop me." Derek says. "I can hold my breath - just do it."

Stiles does, and Derek sinks like a bag of bricks. "Stiles?" Erica asks, and it sounds more like the Erica Stiles sort-of remembers.

Damn. Now he wishes he'd've talked to her more often. Maybe she wouldn't be on the wrong side of this mess.

"Yeah?" He replies, getting out his phone and dialling his friend. "Drop me in." She says. 

"What?" He starts, "No." Stiles finishes. The 'what' was incredulous. 

_Seriously, that's a terrible idea._

"You let go of-"

"He's an adult, he can handle himself. I was gonna get him back out after this  _fucker answers me goddamnit!"_

_Woah, Stilinski. Calm the hell down. That was a little too angry, there._

The phone had gone to the answering machine, and he dropped it in the water. 

"What?" She asks. "What is it?" "Not answering." Stiles grunts, as he tries to get a better hold on Erica. "Hold on. Wait, metaphorically. Sorry." And before she can say anything, stiles dives in, taking her with him. 

Stiles hurries, swimming as fast as he can with the dead weight of a paralysed teen girl on his shoulders.

He lets go of one of her hands, positions her arm around his shoulder.

He grabs onto Derek's shirt and  _pulls._

 _Come on._ Stiles thinks, demands of himself.  _You can do this Stilinski._

He does.

The three of them break the surface. Erica starts coughing, but stops quickly, and Derek heaves a breath. 

Stiles is somehow managing to hold the both of them with their heads above the water, despite his supposed human strength.

"You get me out of here before I drown." Derek demands, and Stiles can detect a hint of desperation in that. "Look here." Stiles starts, "I can't - because that thing isn't going anywhere near the water. Until we get closer to the edge, then it moves. Either it's keeping us in, or it's scared, or it's both - but we can't get out." He explains.

"You better fucking tell me everything from now on,  _alpha."_ Erica says, scornfully. 

"This is eight feet of water, we're paralysed, and you're human." Derek says angrily. "So pardon my worries that we'll all die before the end of your stupid. Little. Lacrosse game."

He ignored Erica's input, of course. If she were able to move her head, Stiles bets she'd be glaring. 

This is gonna be one heck of an awkward swim.

* * *

 

Stiles glances down into the water. He sighs. 

"No." Derek says flatly. "Don't even think about it."

"Look, I don't know about you, but that clock up there-" Stiles nods to the clock; he thinks it's there for swimming tournaments and class times -"It says we've been in here  _hours,_ two at least - and I think I can't do this much longer. You're lucky I have been... it's not normally two hours, the length of time people can hold up other people in water."

"Don't." Derek growls. Stiles glares, doesn't make a noise but he near snarls either way.

"Shut up and trust me, just this once." Stiles demands.

"No." Derek says instantly.

"For - stop acting like - like some useless  _child,_ Derek." Erica growls. "Let him - Let Stiles try... even if it doesn't work, he can rest his shoulders for a short while, and then hold us up for longer."

"See?" Stiles inclines his head in Erica's direction. "She agrees with me. And, for the record - who is keeping you alive here, huh? Certainly not yourself."

Derek growls. "Yeah. And when the paralysis wears off, who is gonna be able to fight that thing, you or me? You don't trust me I don't trust you. You need me to survive, which is why you are not letting me go. Stiles!"

"You know what?" Stiles says. "Sorry, asshole. Actually sorry, Erica."

And he lets go.

The two werewolves get in a breath before plummeting, of course, and Erica can see Stiles swim off towards the deep end (where his phone had been dropped). Of course, she hits the bottom and then can only see upwards, so all Erica can do now, is wait.

* * *

 

Stiles grabs his phone and, unthinking, turns it on and calls Scott before he reaches the surface. he puts it to his ear and the call goes through just as he breaks for air.

"Scott!" He says, relieved. He's cut off before he can say anything more.

"I can't talk right now." Scott says, rushed and a little annoyed, before the phone cuts off. 

"Damn it!" Stiles yells, before chucking his phone off somewhere. 

He dives under, so he doesn't see it hit the wall and leave a dent, but not smash into itty bitty pieces. 

 _I got ya._ Stiles thinks, as he grabs Erica. They surface, he says "Take a breath." and she does, a deep one, and they go under again to get Derek.

They do, of course. When they break the surface, Derek says, "Tell me you got him."

Stiles shakes his head. "No." 

With that, there is silence. They tread - Stiles treads water for a while longer, a boost from not having to hold them up for a short while letting him do so.

* * *

 

Scott calls Stiles' phone, but there's no answer.

He leaves a voice mail. "Stiles, where are you? I need Gerard's keys, there's a USB drive on it. That's the bestiary."

* * *

 

Stiles is struggling, Erica can tell - but he won't drop either of them to hold onto something, since neither she or Derek have recovered any from the paralysis. 

"I need -" Stiles dips below the water. "-something to hold onto." He finishes, after resurfacing. 

"If you hadn't noticed," Derek snaps. "You let go of either of us, and that one drowns."

Erica thinks that's more than a bit harsh. Stiles is human; he's not built to do stuff like this.

She remembers from pool safety day how hard it was to support one, only one same-aged and around about same-weighted person for a few  _minutes._ A fair amount didn't even last  _that._

Even some of the stronger, bigger kids had had a hard time of it. Two or three of the class had to be helped by the teacher. It was kind of a mess, all in all - but it proves something about Stiles, she thinks.

"Yeah, I'm fully -" He goes under again, surfaces and takes a breath -"Aware of that, thanks."

There's a pause. "What are we going to do?" Erica asks. 

"I-" stiles goes under for longer. When he breaks the surface, he speaks between coughs. "-Don't - know, really."

* * *

 

Scott calls Stiles again, and again it goes to voicemail.

"Somethings gone wrong, Scott." Allison says. "No." Scott replies. "We - where was he last?" Scott asks, before answering himself. "School. I - the school." He says to himself.

"I can't go with you." Allison says. "Dad - he's saying I have to stay in tonight."

Scott nods. "Yeah. Yeah, that's good - okay. You... right." He nods.

Allison knows he doesn't really want her to come; wants to keep her safe. She can take care of herself, of course, but the sentiment isn't lost on her.

The lizard had hurt her previously, after all. She's not so proud as to not admit that, at least to herself.

Scott kisses her goodbye, for now of course, and runs off with that stupid werewolf run that isn't even helpful.

She shrugs. Not her business, really.

Allison goes back inside. Gerard smiles, eating desert. She thinks it ominous.

* * *

 

Stiles can't do this any longer, and with the last of his energy heaves the two of them onto the side - sort of. Erica stays, but Derek starts to slip, and Stiles goes under.

The lizard screeches, Erica hears, and then there's the blur that she thinks is Scott, who grabs Stiles and Derek and -

Throws them at the wall.  _Oh-kay...._

Erica watches as Stiles struggles to get up, obviously still tired from the whole holding two people - one being more viable and one being some ridiculous muscle builder type person who's in their mid twenties so therefore makes it way more difficult for him - up in water for two hours.

Erica thinks it commendable that he's still trying, but them remembered he's ignored her for years and crushes that before it can grow.

Again.

(They used to be friends, when they were younger. Different times, of course, and different feelings on her behalf.

She's as over them as she can be, in that she never thinks she will.)

Scott gets chucked against the wall, and Erica wonders if Karma is actually a thing - you know, supernaturals and all... that might be cool - as it happens. Scott smashes a mirror (again, is bad luck a thing?) and picks up one of the shards.

Erica is unsure  _why,_ exactly, because he's got  _claws._ Werewolves don't need human weapons. 

either way, something about the mirror shard makes the lizard screech again ( _ow)_ and runs off, for some reason.

Maybe it's scared of it's own reflection. That could be useful.

Scott goes over to help Derek up as Stiles stumbles over to help Erica. She's still a little off, the paralysis not quite gone completely. Stiles still takes her weight on his poor shoulders, of course, despite how he has to stoop quite low for it (because even in heels, she's shorter than him. Without them, well.) - like the secretly incredibly kind person she knows him to be (remembers him being, once, a long time ago. Before... everything.). 

They stumble over to the bleachers and she unceremoniously flops onto one of the seats. It's not the most comfortable thing, but she's supported so that's good. 

Stiles grumbles as he near falls into one of the other seats. The thud and grimace shows it's as comfortable for him as she thinks it is. 

Derek walks over, the slightest bit unsteady, and Scott walks along beside him. 

"Hey, Stiles - do you have the keys?" Scott asks. "Yeah." Stiles sighs, weary, and stands.

He's a little unsteady still, but he goes over and stands near them.

"What're we doing with them?" He asks. 

"There's a usb on them." Scott says, opens his bag and takes out a laptop.

"That's the bestiary." Stiles nods, and grabs them from his pocket. They're wet, of course, and Erica figures they're ruined. Scott and Derek seem to think the same, yet Stiles takes the laptop and plugs in the USB -

And it works, somehow. Maybe it's waterproof, Erica doesn't know.

Stiles opens the file on the USB, and frowns at the screen.

"What language is that?" Scott asks, confused slightly. "...I'm not certain." Derek replies unwillingly. 

Stiles is still frowning.  _I know that. How do I know that?_

"Archaic latin." He murmurs, frowning, eyes distant.

_How do I know that?_

Scott notices. Erica frowns, and Derek looks wary.

Stiles closes the laptop, and starts walking. Steady, and unwavering.

"Stiles-" Scott says, places a hand on his friends shoulder but he marches on, pulls away.

The three exchange glances, and follow.

* * *

 

There's a familiar car in the car park, and Scott hisses  _"Stiles!"_ In warning, but the teen ploughs on.

He walks up to the car, knocks on the window. The crying Lydia inside looks to him, sees his eyes and sighs, rolls down the window.

She notices the others and hastily wipes her eyes. Erica could care less.

Bitch. (She'd been very, very rude and uncaring to a lot of people Erica knew; the less popular ones. The ones without talent in sports, or a great body, or money. Or a disability. People like Isaac, herself. Boyd. Scott, Stiles.)

"What are you doing here?" She asks of them, and Stiles hands her the laptop.

She raises a delicate, perfectly plucked eyebrow and takes it, places it on her lap and boots it up.

She frowns at the language in front of her.

"Why have you given me a document in Archaic Latin?" She asks. 

Scott looks a little surprised, and Stiles replies. "Translate it." In a dull, not-Stiles way that makes the hairs on the back of Erica's neck raise. 

Lydia looks at him askance. "Alright." She says. "Give me a few days."

"Lizards." Stiles says. "Lizards to do with werewolves, that's what we're looking for."

"Kanima." Derek buts in. "It's a kanima."

Lydia's large green eyes bore into his, for a moment, assessing. She pats Stiles carefully, absently, on the arm resting on her car door.

"Come on Stiles." She murmurs. turning her full attention to him. "Wake up, Stiles. You need to wake up."

Stiles blinks. Lydia looks satisfied, then looks down at the book.

"I'll skim-translate then." She decided. "Look for the word 'kanima'." The girl shook her head. "And as payment - you all deign to tell me what the hell is going on." She demanded; exasperated, weary.

Erica thinks on how she'd hate being in this mess yet out of the loop, and decides as much as she hates the other girl, she doesn't really, truly deserve this treatment. 

Stiles shakes his head, and blinks again. "Lydia?" He asks, and there's surprise in his tone. 

"Yes, Stiles?" She replies, and there's a softness there, like she's dealing with some cornered animal.

"What-?" He starts, sees the others and stops, freezes. 

He steps backwards, and his face is as much of a mask as always in distressing situations - But Scott can see the fear in his eyes.

"I - uh." Stiles starts. He turns his head, remembers his jeep is in the garage and looks back at them.

He doesn't finish his thought. 

Lydia sighs. "I can drop him off, if you'd like." She says to Scott, who shakes his head a little too rapidly. "No - it's fine." He mumbles, and she frowns.

"If you've gotten it in your head either of us is a liability to the other, you can come with us, you know." She says, airily. 

There's a pause.

"Alright. yeah, okay." Scott says, and Stiles looks at Lydia.

"Thanks." He says, belatedly.

She smiles, sharp. Erica wonders if it's because the rest of them are there.

"Don't mention it."

Scott gets in the passenger seat a little too fast. Stiles gets in the back, and Lydia drives off.

Erica looks at Derek.

She glares. He glares right back.

"You are going to tell me everything." Erica tells him. "Right now. Then, when we get back, you will, and I repeat  _will_ tell the others."

Derek glares. He, of course, doesn't answer.

Erica berates herself for ever thinking he'd be a good alpha. Heck, McCall, Stilinski, Boyd, even Martin - they'd all make better alphas than this guy.

And he's a fucking  _Adult._

Erica flips her hair and strides off in the direction of their shitty warehouse. 

She wonders if they'll ever get a chance to redecorate. It's a very dull place.

* * *

 

Lydia is puppy-dog-eyed into dropping off Stiles first, and so she does with appropriate sass, then drives Scott back to his house. 

Lydia drives off, because she has a book to translate. 

It's not like it will do so itself, after all.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> been a little while, hah...  
> oops. But! I'm ill, so that means a lot more time to do this stuff. So that's good, I guess.


	6. Venomous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuff Happens.  
> This is the motto of this story.

Erica folds her arms and bores holes into the back of Derek's head. She hopes he can feel it, just so that he remembers his promise.

Because when she'd said the others - she'd also meant (annoyingly enough) Stiles, Scott - and Martin. 

Allison wasn't there (Erica didn't care much) but apparently Scott would tell her everything later, so that was fine by her. 

"The kanima, as far as I know - and you'll all know, until she gets the translation done -"

Lydia scoffed, muttered "As if you could translate it; patience is a virtue, you know" but Derek ignored it. 

He continued on. "is an abomination. A corruption of the werewolf bite, or so I've heard."

Here he pauses, eyes flick to Lydia. Scott and Stiles shift their positions slightly - protective. Erica understands why.

"It's, according to legend, confused by it's own reflection."

"It doesn't know who it is." Stiles says.

"Or what." Lydia adds.

"What else do you know?" Scott asks, and Derek replies. "Stories, rumours. Nothing concrete. All I know; it's a shape-shifter but it's - not right; it's an -"

"Abomination." Stiles says. "You've already told us this."

Scott starts talking. "Derek? We need to work together on this. Maybe even tell the Argents." Stiles face-palms, as Lydia raises an eyebrow at him. Derek demands, "You trust them?" with a kind of angry, incredulous tone. Scott shouts back. "Nobody trusts anyone! That's the problem. While we're here, arguing about who's on what side, there's something scarier, stronger and faster than any of us, and it's killing people and we still don't even know anything about it!"

There's silence for a moment, because they all know he's right.

Derek speaks up. "I know one thing, when I find it? I'm gonna kill it."

"No." Lydia says instantly.

He looks at her, a little angry, maybe. She's challenging his authority, his judgement. 

"I haven't finished translating the bestiary yet; what if it holds a cure, or it's purpose, or anything else useful?" She demands. "We can't just kill it - not until we know if that's the only option."

There's a pause. "Unless you want to be a murderer, I suggest we wait." She finishes.

"Sometimes you have to kill your enemies. Sometimes it's the only way to survive." Derek says.

"Not this time." Lydia replies, tone cold and eyes hard as stone.

"Tests then." Derek compromises. "We'll poison bitten and unturned people with the kanima's venom. If they are affected, then they're not it."

"Okay, one - that's stupid." Stiles says drily. "And two - that would mean both me and lydia are the kanima... and considering we've been - well,  _us,_ when it's around, that just doesn't work."

There's silence, and Lydia gets this dawning look on her face at the exact same time as stiles.

"And they'd be affected anyway." They say, unanimously. 

"What?" Derek demands. The others look on.

Stiles looks a little excited, probably because he figured something out. Lydia just looks weary.

"Don't you get it? The kanima - when is it  _not_ the kanima?" Stiles asks.

Scott's face flashes with realisation. 

"When it's the human."

There's silence again. 

"So we're back at square one, then?" Isaac asks drily. Stiles rolls his eyes. 

"I figured that was obvious." Isaac glared. Stiles glared right back.

(Erica had always known they'd find it hard to get along. In many ways, they're both far too similar, yet at the same time, far too different.)

"We still need to get Jackson though." Derek says. 

"Why?" Stiles asks. 

"He needs to provide the... 'truth' to the police, so that Isaac can be cleared of any charges in his father's murder case." Derek explains.

Stiles scoffs. They look at him like he's crazy.

He raises an eyebrow. Lydia folds her arms.

Unanimously, they say, "It really won't be difficult to get those charges to go away."

Stiles adds. "Besides; they're only using you as a suspect because they can't really explain his death, anyway. 187 with no traces except it kind of seems like an animal - only a type they've never heard of."

Lydia nods. "I'll get Jackson to talk." She says. "Stiles, I don't want my car anywhere near his house ever again. May we take the jeep?" She asks. 

Stiles shrugs. "Sure, why not."

The two leave. Scott looks at them warily. He follows, but the elevator doors shut before he can get in.

Scott sighs. 

"What is up with them?" Isaac asks. "They're acting weirder than usual. And in one of their cases, that's saying something."

"Isaac." Scott sighs, and the other teen shrugs. "I don't know." Scott admits to the room at large. 

Derek frowns. "Keep an eye on them." He demands. Scott rolls his eyes. "As if I wasn't going to look out for my friends." He retorts. Derek purses his lips and looks away, but Erica catches the red flash of his eyes.

_Oh dear. Looks like the Alpha doesn't like this omega._

 

* * *

The Jeep, recently freed from repairs-prison, pulls up to the Whittemore's residence.

Lydia takes out her phone, and dials Jackson.

The time of day is very, very early morning - like, five am morning. None of the lights are on in the house.

Because of this, Jackson was most likely not paying attention when he answered the phone.

Lydia put it on speaker.

"Hello?" A tired voice asks. "Jackson." Lydia greets, sharp and annoyed.

"Lydia." He says in return, flat and uncaring. "And Stiles." Lydia says.

There's a pause on the other end. The curtains on a room on the second floor shift, enough to look through. Stiles sees this in the dark.

"You brought him here?" Jackson hisses. "Fuck off, Stilinski."

"Nope, Jackass." Stiles retorts. "Unless you want Derek to be much more rude, and more more punch-your-face happy, when he comes to get you instead of us, then you'll get dressed, and you'll get down here, and you'll come with us." Stiles tells him.

Lydia smirks, slightly. "Listen to Stiles, Jackson." She says, sweetly. "Or we're breaking and entering, and dragging your ass down here with us, and you can sit pretty in the back of the jeep tied down with mountain ash and wolfsbane in your system. Do you really want that,  _honey?"_ She asks. 

There's a scoff on the other end.  _"I'd like to see you try."_ he hisses. Stiles rolls his eyes to the heavens. 

_Seriously, what an ass._

"Just get down here." He demands, tiredly, into the receiver. "We've been up all night, for fucks sake, and my patience is running thin."

Lydia smiles. "Mine as well, Jackson. Come now; we mean no harm."

There's another scoff on the other end.

"She's serious." Stiles says. "We recently stopped Derek from wanting to kill you; you literally owe us your life."

"So,  _sweetie,"_ Lydia simpers, then cuts the act.

"Get yourself down here now, unless you want me to spill all of your little secrets to the guy sitting next to me, whom you despise in part because he has a crush on me."

Stiles grimaces. She waves a hand, with a small smile and an expression that says,  _Yeah, I know, It's alright. I don't hate you. We will talk later, though._

The line cuts off, and the curtain closes. A few minutes later (half an hour; you can count on Jackson to take forever getting ready) he's outside and storming over to the Jeep.

Stiles grins and jerks his head in the direction of the back of the car, and Jackson grumpily gets in.

"Why do you want me here?" He demands once he's in. "We aren't going to that house again, are we?"

Stiles blinks. He forgot the last time Jackson was in a car anywhere near Stiles Stiles himself was bleeding to death and they were going to go help murder a murderer. 

Right.  _Ah._

"House?" Lydia asks. Stiles hesitates, but Jackson has no qualms being blunt.

"Yeah. The burnt down one; you know, when Stiles was bleeding out and at the same time throwing those - cocktail things at some - monster."

Lydia stilled. Stiles winced, and kept driving. "Bleeding out, hmm?" She inquired. 

"Yeah." Jackson replied, rolling his eyes. "Why else do you think he was in the hospital - because he wanted to stalk your dying self?"

Stiles' hands tightened on the steering wheel and the gear stick, knuckles white.

"You know, Jackson" Stiles said, conversationally, "You could just shut the fuck up and everyone in the world would rejoice. Seriously, there would be a parade, and everything."

Jackson scoffed. "I think you'll find that's you, Stilinski." He says in retort. "Since you never shut up, you spaz."

There's silence in the car. Stiles' eyes are boring holes into the windscreen, his foot his pressed down firmly on the gas. Lydia knows he's trying to focus on driving - and that's the only thing stopping him from escalating this ridiculousness further.

Still.

"That was uncalled for, Jackson." Lydia says, coolly, locking eyes with him in the rear view mirror.

He's the first to look away.

"I may have ADHD," Stiles starts, and  _oh no_ Lydia knows where this is going.

"But at least I don't have your 'oh, look at me, please pay attention to me' problem, Whittemore. Even though, you know - you have people who'd do that, and yet - oh look, there they go because you are a fucking idiot and you push them away."

Stiles does some manoeuvre with the car, a quick thing and then they're safely parallel parked in front of Derek's warehouse.

"Get out." Stiles says, flatly. Jackson says nothing, and complies.

"That was harsh." Lydia says quietly.

Stiles' hand is tapping frantically on his steering wheel. His other hand has been removed from the gear stick, but it's clenched shut knuckles white. Whiter.

"He's an asshole." Stiles replies. Lydia has nothing to say to that.

But still.

"And yet it was still harsh, Stiles." She says quietly.

His hand taps faster.

When he catches her looking it stills, of course it does, and then he's out of his car and the ignition's off.

She gets out, locks her door. Stiles is pacing, glaring, moving.

"I said I don't have his problem." He mutters, and she listens. "And I don't." He continues." But I do have Anxiety, and ADHD, and it's probably nothing new, and it really doesn't matter but -"

Stiles grunts. He looks like he's about to punch his jeep, but he doesn't. 

"Go. Be with him." Stiles says. "I don't feel like defending a person I hate right now."

Lydia stalls, for a moment, but he stares and wins and she leaves.

He watches her go.

Once she's gone, he really does punch his jeep. It doesn't dent, but his hand doesn't hurt, either.

He gets in, and drives, and he's still shaking.

* * *

 

Lydia storms up to Jackson, and before anyone can do anything, she punches him.

her hand throbs, obviously, and a couple of her knuckles split, but she wore rings today and that leaves marks on his face.

It doesn't double him over, knock him down as Stiles' punch had done that night at the school a little while back, but it does make her feel better.

About how he's treated her, how he's treated other people.

He doesn't smile weirdly like he did that night either (she doesn't really think about that; as Lydia mentioned it doesn't make any sense to her) but he does look a little shocked. 

The others look a little shocked.

"What-?" Scott asks, but Lydia gets the feeling Stiles wouldn't be happy if she tells him why.

"He deserved it." She says, instead, and when nobody says anything to negate that she thinks it drives Stiles' point home, in Jackson's head.

Derek doesn't seem to care. 

"As we were saying," He continues. "You will tell the sheriff you didn't see isaac and his father shouting that night." Derek flashes alpha red eyes. "Are we clear?"

Jackson's trying not to look scared, but he was always rather bad at that, Lydia knows. 

"Yeah, sure - alright." He starts, then rushes to sound more sincere when Derek cracks his knuckles.

"Good." Derek says. Scott doesn't look to happy with the proceedings, but Lydia knows Jackson wouldn't do what they want if they used any other method.

"Where's Stiles?" Erica says, suddenly, and then all eyes are on Lydia.

"He went home." She says. "Or he's still in the car park."

"Why?" Jackson asked, and there's something she rather doesn't like in his eyes and his tone of voice.

She smiles sweetly. "Oh, no reason Jackson. But I rather think you don't want him to punch you -  _again,_ considering how painful and broken your nose was, afterwards."

There were a few amused looks and sounds throughout those present. Jackson was angrily embarrassed. 

"It wasn't broken, and that never happened." He retorted, immediately disproving his second statement with the first.

"Of course,  _sweetheart."_ Lydia demured, smiling, her eyes glinting with mirth.

Jackson glared. She smiled prettily, a small faux ditzy thing, and he immediately dismissed her.

Now there were glares in his direction. Jackson scoffed.

"I'm going to go, now, and none of you freaks are gonna follow me - because my dad's a _lawyer."_

"And I can always say you all are stalkers."

With that (and a few growls from the werewolves, excluding Scott - and the other new one; Lydia didn't know his name) he stalked off.

"Good luck getting to school, Jackson!" She called after him. "Your dear Porsche is still at home, after all."

Jackson pretended to ignore her and entered the elevator. The doors closed shut behind him.

"Touchy." Isaac commented, and Lydia hummed in agreement. 

"Stiles really punched him?" Isaac asked. Lydia raised an eyebrow. "In recent years; more than once. But yes, a month or so, back when the - other Alpha was running around, murdering people and I was having to listen to Scott learn how to lie."

Scott looked a little embarrassed, Derek looked annoyed at the memory, and the betas looked a little confused.

"Nobodies told you?" Lydia asked, exasperated. Erica glared at Derek, who sighed.

"Fine." He grunted. "Scott?" He asked. The teen sighed.

"Okay, so - at the beginning of junior year, I got bitten..."

Lydia smiled.  _Establish proper communication, check._

* * *

The bell rings for Econ, and the group piles in. 

Mainly because Scott and Stiles were keeping an eye on the betas, Allison was keeping an eye on Lydia (so was everyone else - including Stiles, who everyone else was also keeping an eye on) and the betas were keeping an eye on Jackson.

He was the only and most likely suspect, after all.

Coach was already there, and when the group all piled into desks in a weirdly specific arrangement, he stared, sighed, and didn't ask.

The lesson went on, with the Coach asking people to come up to the front.

_"Lydia."_ A voice said. She looked, but there was nothing. 

Stiles glared at the back of the head of the junior he recognised as the creepy one who'd been messing with him and hanging around Lydia.

Lydia was called up, and she went to do the question.

Stiles blinked, and the room was empty.

Well, aside from Lydia, who was sitting back in her chair. 

And  _fucking goddamn_ Peter Hale, who stalks towards Lydia, flipping desks and throwing shit and Stiles just wants to  _punch him._

And so he does.

It's a surprisingly strong punch, and he's not sure how he got up so fast, but he's between this asshole and Lydia Martin, which might not be the best for his health but he'll be damned if Uncle Goddamn Creeper is getting  _anywhere near her._

Peter looks at him in surprise, as if he just realised Stiles was there.

The man shrugged, opened his palm, and blew some weird white powder into Stiles' face.

Stiles coughed, blinked, but held his ground and nothing else happened.

Peter took pause. He cocks his head, slightly. 

Stiles holds his ground.

The older man sighs.

He grabs Stiles and throws him into the wall, taking Stiles by surprise.

Stiles hits his head, and jerks it backwards.

"You okay?" Scott asks, and Stiles can hear laughter. 

He blinks, and turns to the front - where Lydia has written -

Stiles takes a picture, flips it.

_HELP ME_ stares back at them, over and over again.

"She's not the kanima." He says, because Stiles  _knows_ this. 

"But something else is going horribly wrong."

He stares at the picture as the others stare at each other, and the laughter of the students continues. 

The coach speaks, and the laughing dies down, "Okay then, anybody else want to try answering? This time in English?"

Stiles can't help himself. 

"It is English, Coach." He calls out, and the class stop laughing, look at him weirdly.

Lydia still looks dazed. 

Stiles stands up, walks over to the coach and hands him his phone.

He looks at the picture, and sighs.

"Well damn." Coach mutters. "Go on - take her out of here, Stilinski." He tells him, and some of the class seemingly starts to realise that this is serious.

Stiles does.

Of course, no-one else has permission to follow.

* * *

 

Stiles stops them in one of the empty classrooms, gestures for her to wait a minute.

He walks over to the CCTV camera, brazen as ever, and waves.

"Hello, Gerard." He says, cheerful. "My friend and I kinda need to have a private conversation, so could you give us a while before storming in here after I cut this thing off? Thanks." Lydia stares, shakes her head as Stiles pulls down the camera, messes with it until the backs off and takes out one of those swiss army knives, cuts some of the wires and drops the thing in the bin.

"Right." Stiles says. He grabs the teacher's chair, and one of the normal student ones, and drags them into better places, puts a desk between them. He sits on the normal chair, and Lydia takes the more comfortable one, as it's the only one left to take.

Stiles leans on the table, and Lydia realises he's waiting for her to speak. 

"I don't know what's going on." She says, quietly.

"Neither do I." he replies, and she's glad of the truth.

"We could go look for the house and the stump now, if you wanted." Stiles said.

Lydia looked to him, and she nodded. Stiles took her hand, led her over to the window, and opened it. Let go, and climbed out. 

They were only on the first floor, so it wasn't too bad, but Lydia still stumbled on the landing.

Lydia huffed and put her shoes back on, and the two of them walked into the woods.

A certain junior watched them go from Chemistry; their class was in a room on the second floor.

* * *

 

The two of them were silent in their wanderings, but Stiles knew these woods well (how does he know these woods so well?) and they arrived at the house faster than expected.

The two, still silent, explored, but again - there was nothing to be found.

Lydia felt appeased, at this; she had hoped for something, anything - but with nothing here...

It felt like this place was just less important, now.

Stiles was staring at the floor in the living room, but she took his hand and he snapped out of it.

The two of them looked for the stump, but hours later and they still didn't find it.

With a sigh, they went back to the town. They'd look again, and again and again, until they found it.

Just not today.

* * *

 

When they emerge from the woods at the lacrosse feild the others are there, having obviously tailed them after they got out of class. 

"We're going to Scott's house." Derek informs them. "You've got a school project - and you're all working on it there."

Stiles instinctively rolls his eyes. Lydia looks flatly at him, and flips her hair before walking over to stand next to Allison. 

"Are you okay?" She asks the strawberry-blonde, who also rolls her eyes and replies, "Of course, Allison."

Derek leaves, most likely because he doesn't want to get arrested again, and the group stands there awkwardly.

Because they're not friends, not really. Half of them hate each other, in fact.

"Let's go." Scott says. "I'll take my car separately." Allison said. "Meet you there." She leaves. 

Isaac, Erica and Boyd shrug. 

"We can walk." Erica says, and that's that since they start doing so. 

The others watch them disappear into the trees, and the four that are left look at each other.

"I'll drive Lydia and -" Here, Stiles grimaced -"Him." 

Jackson scoffed. "Childish, much?" He said, and Stiles glared.

Scott frowned.

"I'm not so sure that's a great idea..."

"What do you suggest?" Stiles asks. "You own a bike, Scott. A bike. It's not even a motorbike, it's just a bike. No-one else can go on that with you, and nobody drives my Jeep except me, okay?" Stiles says flatly. Lydia knows he's annoyed by the whole situation as much as she is - if not more, because he's been treated like this; like human and therefore unable to be trusted on his own without a big, strong werewolf to protect him. Or small strong werewolf, she supposes - thinking of Reyes.

Either way, she'd be as annoyed - and she is - as Stiles. Considering they're both in that very situation right now... well. She therefore is.

It's just the process of elimination. 

Scott sighs. "One of you's the kanima." He says, bluntly. 

"Bike alongside us then." Stiles says, and turns around, walks off.

She thinks maybe he's offended that Scott's even considering he'd be the Kanima. She knows she is. 

With a sigh, Lydia grabs Jackson by the arm and drags him after them, doesn't let go when he wrenches his arm back just pulls harder. She storms after Stiles and sits in the back with Jackson, if only to stop him from being - what appropriate thing does Stiles call him? - a Jackass.

_hey, it even fits his name._

* * *

 

The ride is uneventful. Every time Jackson goes to say something, she slaps him, and every time Stiles is about to, she kicks his seat.

It works. They arrive at Scott's place without incident. 

They get out of the car as Stiles locks it up, and Lydia drags Jackson up to the door and rings the bell.

Stiles stands beside them, and they wait only a moment before Scott opens the door.

"Ended up trusting us then?" Stiles asks lightly, brushing past Scott and entering the house, as familiar with it as if it were his own.

Lydia waits until Scott is out of the way, and walks in, hand still guiding Jackson by his forearm. They enter the lounge and she lets go.

Stiles is sitting down on one of the armchairs, looking slightly bored. Reyes and the two other betas are grouped on the couch and Derek is leaning against the wall. Allison is on the last remaining furniture, and Scott takes his place standing between her and the couch.

Lydia's unsure of where to sit, but Allison stands and gestures. "Sit there Lydia. I've got to get some more chairs for everyone anyway." She says, and Lydia thinks it's more the fact that she's the heir to the Argent's hunting empire than the fact that they need more chairs which makes her leave the room.

That doesn't mean they don't need chairs. They do. But Lydia's never been and never will be and never could be what you may interpret as 'stupid.'

Lydia sits down, and Jackson leans against the wall, looking awkward and out of place despite the aura of confidence he's so desperately trying to shove down all their throats.

_I wonder why._ Lydia thinks sarcastically. Only thinks, though.

"Anyone gonna say anything, or is this just a waste of time?" Stiles pipes up, tone dry. 

Isaac looks like he'd wanted to say very much the same thing, and so glaring ensues.

_Honestly. Boys._

Derek speaks up, since Scott doesn't. "One of you three is the Kanima. Most likely Jackson."

"Kanima?" Jakson demands. "What the hell is a kanima?"

"Lizard thing that's an abomination of the werewolf bite; caused by the mental and emotional state of the bitten, and seeks a master - it wishes to  _please."_ Stiles says. There's an emphasis on please, and Jackson stiffens in such a minute manner, in a way that Lydia thinks maybe only she notices from -

Their time as a couple. A fake couple. A nothing relationship.

No-one says anything. Lydia decides to speak up.

"Well, it's definitely not Stiles or myself." She says, and when Derek looks at her and opens his mouth, she holds up a perfectly manicured hand and continues, "Considering we've both been attacked by it previously. It's not Danny for the same reason, and that he's never been bitten, and it isn't anyone else in this room for obvious ones. The only person it could  _possibly_ be, due to the process of elimination - is Jackson. So why, pray tell, aren't we just locking him up with those werewolf shackles you _must_ have for full moons?"

Stiles nods. Derek looks annoyed, but the betas seem to agree, and it's not like Scott's complaining. 

Derek relents, and nods, and Stiles gets up and goes upstairs.

Scott scratches the back of his neck, and Lydia understands that he'd probably keep his even after he's gained control - just in case.

"What's he gone for?" Derek asks Scott anyway, for reasons Lydia can't discern. 

Scott blinks at Derek like he's an idiot, and to be honest due to logical thinking and common sense he really shouldn't have needed to ask that question.

"The 'werewolf shackles', obviously." Erica mutters, and Derek glares at her. She isn't cowed, of course - and Lydia's respect for Reyes heightens slightly.

Stiles is back, with a really strong looking chain and cuffs, and drops them unceremoniously onto the floor.

"Considering my lack of werewolfitude," Stiles starts, "I'm going to preemptively not do anything since you're all going to kick me out 'for my own good' regardless." he finishes, pointedly.

"Good luck figuring those out, by the way." He adds, belatedly, already gone from view, the words carrying down the hallway.

Derek does indeed growl, like the 'adult' he is, and picks up the chains. 

Jackson looks suitably wary. "Jackson?" Allison asks from behind him. He turns, she smiles sweetly, and knocks him out.

_As you do._ Erica thinks, approvingly. 

"That should help." Allison says. "He looked about ready to bolt."

Lydia nods. "Very much so," She agreed breezily. 

Derek lifted the teen as the betas picked up the restraints. Scott snapped up the keys before anyone else could (a good thing; as it didn't let Derek and his group be in complete control of the situation) and led them all outside. 

Allison and Lydia were stopped at the door. 

Allison shoved a ring dagger in Isaac's face, and he let her past, but stared Lydia down. 

"Not happening, Martin." He says, infuriatingly. "Why not?" She demands.

"You're human. You could get hurt." He says. "And Allison?" She retorts. He shrugs. 

"The girl's got ring daggers. I'm not messing with that."

Lydia concedes his point, but continues. "And Stiles - what was that about?"

There was a pause. "So maybe Derek and Stiles hate each other, and by proxy all of us - Derek's betas - hate him, though I think me and Erica-"

"Erica _and I."_ Lydia interrupts, snidely.

He rolls his eyes, and continues on.

"- have perfectly valid other reasons to hate him."

"Like what?" Lydia asks, pretending to not know.

She does, of course. The Queen of any school has to know all the gossip, despite it's ridiculousness.

(Isaac asked her out once, but she declined. This apparently meant he could hate her. Though, to be fair, she could have not insulted him and insinuated his mother was a - well. In the process. Erica never once said anything to Stiles, so how he was supposed to have some sixth sense about her feelings, Lydia'd never know.)

(What she means is Lydia knows that she can be a bitch, okay? She used Scott to get back at Jackson, she ignored that her best friend loved him at the time - she wasn't great, and she knows she isn't always perfect. She knows these things just like she knows quantum physics and a large amount of other things - like archaic Latin, and what colour suits her hair, eyes and skin tone best.)

(But hate her for that. Not because she declined dating you.)

He doesn't buy it, of course. "You know." He says instead. Lydia looks at him flatly. 

"I'm going out there." She says. "no" He replies.

She digs the heel of her her shoes into his foot - just at the opening, at the top of the shoe. 

He grimaces, and she pushes past, goes outside.

Stiles is there. Isaac looks surprised, but he has a baseball bat and is sitting on the overhang, above Scott's bedroom window all the same despite this.

Stiles messes with it, fiddles as he always does. He sees them as he swings it onto his shoulder, and he nods to them. Lydia smiles back, grimly. She walks over to Allison, who puts a hand on her front.

Lydia sees the formation and knows about lines of defence - but, Lydia  _knows_ Jackson, as much as she wishes she doesn't.

And she knows she wants to help him. If only because she can, and because despite his utter  _horribleness -_

He doesn't deserve this. Not even a little bit.

She looks at him, and he looks at her, catches her eye.

Allison hands her a flashlight, and she takes it. The beam catches on the key on her necklace - and Jackson looks  _angry._

Of course, it is that moment Derek spots the Kanima scales on his skin - sees the start of the transformation.

It is that moment, Stiles knows, sees from his perch - when everything starts going to shit.

* * *

 

Once Jackson is fully kanima, the first thing he does is break free.

"Those were expensive!" Stiles complains, and despite this the kanima pays him no notice.

In fact, all it does is paralyse the werewolves who attack it, before bounding off. But now they're paralysed, the Kanima's about to go murder another innocent, and Jackson -

He's going to kill another innocent.

Lydia repeats this. Somehow, she thinks, if she does this she won't worry as much about him being killed - rather the opposite. 

Because she knows that's what Derek's going to do now. His eyes are red, and they are angry.

And she thinks now that she understands the woes of humans in the supernatural world.

They can't really do anything to stop those within it.

(That's the kind of fear, the kind of powerlessness, that leads to hunters, Lydia understands. She hopes that Allison doesn't go that way, she hopes she doesn't and Stiles -

She knows he won't. Scott means to much to him for Stiles to ever do such a thing.)

 

 


	7. If You Go Down To The Woods Today -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
> 
> They're in the woods again.
> 
> /the three of them./
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to give something, despite how long it's been. It's not much, practically nothing, but I didn't want to just post an update pretending to be a chapter. More at the end.

Stiles blinks to awareness. It's the morning following Jackson's dramatic escape as the kanima, and Stiles is retroactively glad Scott's Mom wasn't in. 

And then Stiles realizes he's not in his own bed (having returned home after he'd made sure Scott was okay) and then Stiles bolts upright, because  _not again._

Lydia's there, of course. She's standing, though. The two of them are in the preserve, as always, but the location is -

Different. 

Stiles stands, walks over to Lydia, who acknowledges him no further than a side glance and a slight nod. 

Stiles nods back and looks to the house they're in front of.

It's white, and it's old. Stiles has the distinct feeling of having been here before, but Stiles doesn't know of any old white houses that are abandoned in the preserve. 

He knows about the Hale house and the Tate's home. But that's it, as far as Stiles is aware. 

Lydia walks forwards, and Stiles follows her inside. 

Pete's there. Stiles frowns. 

_Pete. A house in the woods._

Stiles' frown deepens. 

Lydia moves towards the junior, and Stiles - 

He's fine, fine just standing here. Not doing anything.

_Why is he-?_

"Is this your house?" Lydia asks. 

"It was," Pete says, moves from the door frame and into the room proper. 

_It was. Pete. A house in the woods._

_A girl in red. In this case, red hair._

_All that's missing is the -_

Pete - or, really,  _'Pete' -_ steps forwards, as Lydia does so.

"You still owe me that kiss," Pete says, and Stiles - 

Frowns. 

_A girl in red. A house in the woods -_

_A wolf. A woodsman._

_Who's the wolf, and who's the woodsman, **Stiles?**_

Stiles blinks. He's standing next to Lydia, now, and Pete's there, in front of them. 

He blinks, and he shifts - Pete does - his form flickers, for a split-second, and Stiles could have  _sworn -_

"I suppose," Lydia says, and that - Stiles frowns, again, and whatever he'd seen - it's gone. From his head. 

Lydia steps forward, and Stiles feels - not awkward.

He should. 

Lydia doesn't look - happy. Or comfortable. Stiles - Stiles wants to stop this, at the same time as not, because - 

Lydia's doing this of her own volition. Right?

Stiles isn't sure. He - 

He isn't sure of anything right now.

There's a wardrobe, Stiles sees, moves away from the kissing teens.

Stiles looks in the mirror on the front, and -

And. 

_And -_

_Well. **That's not good, is it, Stiles?**_

_**But it is fine. You are fine with this.** _

_Yeah._ Stiles. Stiles is - is fine. With this. 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really know where to go with this; how to continue off from where I left in the previous chapter. I have Ideas for future seasons, but season two is just - fucking with me. I can't seem to get this running parallel with canon very easily due to the changes I've made, and it's all a bit of a mess. I might put this on hiatus or something, but maybe not. I know this seems bad, and it is, really, but if anyone has any ideas at all, feel free to give your two pennies. It'll really help, honest. I'm kinda stuck atm, and I don't want to give up on this. So uh, yeah. SOS; Help? Please? Lol. thanks tho if you do decide to give any advice. I'm sorry about that; the next fic in the series, season three, will be a lot more coherent I feel, since I have a much better grasp on where I want to go during that season, and since after 3B I diverge anyway, I don't need to worry after that part. Cheers! :D


	8. - You'll Be Sure For A Big Surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one. Buckle in, folks.

Jackson awakes in the back of a car. 

Allison is sitting in the front, facing him. The car, Jackson recognizes, is his very own Porsche. How they got ahold of it, Jackson doesn't know.

"Lydia got your car keys. We needed to make it seem like you'd - gone off somewhere. Lydia decided she'd run interference with your parents, so as far as I'm aware, nobody suspects a thing." Allison tells him. Jackson sneers at her, jerks apart his arms - or tries to; he does that to demonstrate the cuffs restraining him.

"Let me out," Jackson demands, and Allison shakes her head, eyes hard. "Remeber the last time we were in this car together?" She asks instead of saying 'no' or doing what he'd wanted, and Jackson -

That night was a shitshow. Jackson knows this. And, sure, he - isn't a fan of Stilinski, was far more concerned about his car (Luckily, he got the blood out)  _however_ nobody deserves to bleed to death. Even Jackson can admit Stilinski's got a shit deal out of all what's happened - but at least he's gotten  _something._

Jackson's gotten nothing. He's - 

"Unfortunately." Jackson allows, frowns at her - still sneering, still angry. "Let me out," He repeats, "Because, you know my dad? He's a  _Lawyer."_

"And my Dad's a hunter who would have no problem  _putting you down_ if given the chance, so I'd be a bit more thankful about what we're doing which is, newsflash,  _trying to save your life._ " Allison pointedly turns to the front and retrieves a bag. "And you really should be more grateful, because I had to put those trousers on you.  _Not_ pleasant." Allison turns back, a mocking smile. "And rather underwhelming." She holds out two sandwiches, and Jackson glowered at what she implied. "Ham or turkey?" She asked, dry. "I'm not the best chef, so they won't be great. But Scott was busy at the clinic and I couldn't get ahold of Lydia or Stiles, so here I am, and this is all you get."

Jackson glowers some more. Allison tosses him the turkey. It lands on his lap, and he glowers, and she smirks. "There a problem?"

(It's not like Jackson can even eat the damn sandwich anyway. His hands are bound.)

" _No."_ He grunts out, too proud and too angry and too -  _Jackson._ Allison smiles, dimples in full-force, and Jackson sneers again. 

She's dropped the topic of what had happened the last time they were in this car together. When Allison was tending to Stilinski's wound - when Jackson had been sitting in the front seat where Stilinski had been when Jackson was driving, sitting in what amounted to a dried (partially dried) pool of fucking  _blood,_ while Argent had his hands on the (bloody) steering wheel with a knuckle-white grip -

Jackson doesn't like thinking of that night. He certainly doesn't acknowledge the fact that he'd - tried, maybe, a little, to give Allison comfort - to take comfort from her - because he doesn't like Stilinski, but he doesn't exactly want him  _dead._

_(And that wasn't the best night for any of them, anyway.)_

* * *

Once Stiles had stumbled back home, barefooted and still in his pajamas, his Dad still at work and Lydia at home and the rest god-knows-where, Stiles went up to his bedroom and resumed what he'd been doing the night before; when he'd fallen asleep at his desk and then awoken to  _the middle of the fucking woods and **god damn** Peter Hale fucking with our heads - _

Stiles hates not being able to help Lydia, he does - but people are  _dying._ Stiles... he can't just sit around, twiddling his thumbs and worrying about Uncle Creeper the Younger, he needs to do - something. Needs to try, at least, to figure out the Kanima, the Kanima's master (thank you, Lydia, for knowing Archaic Latin), needs to do  _something._

Stiles opens the yearbook, sees the notes ~~he's not sure~~ he remembers making and gets to work. 

* * *

Allison breathes a sigh of relief when Scott arrives, but her chat with Jackson isn't done yet. She nods to him - Scott, specifically - and turns back around to Jackson.

"You attacked Danny," Allison says - blunt, upfront,  _truthful,_ and hopefully above all else -

 _Convincing._ Proof that Jackson will accept, will take into account  _at least,_ something to make him give a shit about  _anything._

Allison isn't about to declare sudden understanding about how someone like Danny can be friends with someone like Jackson - Danny, as far as she knows, is a great guy. Jackson, on the other hand - 

Well. Stiles would call him a Jackass, and these days Lydia seems to have picked up the habit as well. Neither of them is exactly  _wrong._

"What are you talking about?" Jackson scoffs, dismisses, and Allison  _glares,_ heated, angry, and Jackson - 

Blinks. Well, Allison thinks.  _That's something._

"Then why is Danny in the hospital?" Allison asked. "Why was he paralyzed and unable to move?"

"I'm guessing the - what, the Kanima attacked him?" Jackson said dryly. 

"Yes." Allison rolls her eyes, because  _seriously?_

"Which is..." Allison leads, and Jackson sneers at her. "What reason would I have to do that?"

"He was in the way," Allison says, takes out a newspaper clipping. On the front is a girl - twenty-something, worked at The Jungle, Jackson thought he might've recognized her face from somewhere, but he wasn't sure, exactly. 

"Then why would I do that?"

"Because the Kanima's master wanted you to. Since whoever the Kanima's master is, controls you." 

Jackson sneered, harsh and ugly and  _understandable._ "Nobody controls  _me."_

"You think that," Allison says. "I think that. Scott thinks that. Stiles, Lydia - anyone, everyone thinks that. But Gerard is proof enough that someone controls my family and even if the hunters  _say_ they're matriarchal, Gerard has far more sway than my mother ever has. Even if she's arguably of the same mindset."

Jackson stares back at her, eyes just as unflinching. Fugue states, he thinks, and he thinks that the last thing he remembers is the glint of a torch's light reflecting off of the key around Lydia's neck, and he's suddenly so  _angry -_

"I'll let you cool down," Allison says, warily, exits the car and locks it with his keys. Jackson thinks about moving to set off the alarm, but they'd just unlock it, restrain him further, and then re-lock it, so he doesn't. 

* * *

Stiles pauses. He glances over the swim team page - checks it again. He's been combing this for  _hours,_ hours and hours, and maybe it's just his brain playing tricks on him - 

Layhey. Dead. The rave girl; dead. The mechanic; dead. The pregnant woman's husband - dead. All the victims (well, minus the pregnant woman) were part of the swim team. 

 _There's gotta be a reason for that._ Stiles thinks. _A_ _Motive. But what?_

Stiles' dad knocks on his doorframe, and Stiles jumps, startled, his chair slides back with the force of it and smacks into the side of his bed.

They both blink at that but dismiss it equally quickly. 

"What are you up to?" His dad asks, and Stiles - 

Doesn't shrug. Because, because maybe his dad could help with this. As far as his dad knows, this is nothing to do with the supernatural. As far as he knows, this is simply a serial killer - and as far as he knows, Stiles has always had a slightly worrying morbid fascination with that sort of thing. 

"Figuring it out," Stiles says. "All the victims were part of the swim team."

His dad frowns, walks over - glances at Stiles' notes, looks over the web pages Stiles has up, the reports Stiles shouldn't have and the notations he's made on them.

"I think it might be revenge," Stiles says. "Because - what other reason would there be for killing that guy's pregnant wife first, before killing him? Make it hurt. Make it last. Emotional pain and then death. They didn't do that for the rest of them, though, so."

Stiles shrugs. The Sheriff frowns down at Stiles' mess of a workspace, frowns and frowns and frowns. 

"I think..." He says slowly. "That this is a connection we can't pass up."

"Three times is a pattern," Stiles repeats - something he's heard his whole childhood, something he's lived by. 

_Once is happenstance. Twice is a coincidence. Thrice... is a pattern._

There have been more than three victims. This is more than just a pattern. 

* * *

 Lydia gets home and does very, very little. At least, as far as her mom thinks. Really, Lydia isn't resting in bed from her 'ordeal'. She's sitting at her desk with the bestiary up on her laptop alongside a word document and some spare paper (just in case) and she's doing something  _useful._ Maybe she can find something. Maybe she can find -

Find a way for all this to work out without having to kill him. Kill -

Someone she... cares. About. At least - at least a little. 

Lydia takes a sip of her water, sees the sunset shining through her window from her peripheral vision.

She's just - not going to sleep tonight. Maybe that way he won't get inside her head (and drag Stiles along for the ride.)

* * *

 Allison sits next to Scott in her car, herself in the driver's seat, Scott in the passenger's. 

"I -" Allison stops. "Do you think there's a way to save him?" She asks, quiet but not really that quiet at all. Soft, perhaps - hesitant. Scott shrugs - in a way, he's also reluctant to think about it.

Stiles nearly died. Lydia nearly died. Allison - she's not a fan of Jackson, but she doesn't want him  _dead._

"Lydia's looking," Scott says instead of answering - tells her what she knows instead of his own opinion, and it's frustrating but understandable.

"Do you regret it?" Allison says - abrupt, short, rushed out - words she doesn't really want to say but words she can't help saying anyway. 

Scott lets out a slow, tired breath, and Allison thinks they're all too  _young_ for this  _merde._

"Yes," Scott says. " _Of course_ yes. But..." Scott pauses, looks out the window. "If I hadn't gotten bit, we probably wouldn't have interacted much. If - if this hadn't all happened, Peter would still be running around killing people and turning innocents, and it'd just be another group of kids pulled into this mess. And you'd grow up to be an Argent Matriarch, and would you -" Scott looks back to her, hesitant and scared in the same way that Allison feels about her own future. "How would you turn out if that was how you found out about werewolves? Your dad, your mom, Kate, Gerard, or yourself - would you know to be better?"

Allison doesn't really like him putting all her fears so plainly out into the open, but she did ask. 

_Would it have been oh so much worse if we weren't the ones shoved into this life?_

Allison was headed here anyway; to this life, what with her family. Lydia was always - whatever she is (because if you aren't turned or killed by the bite, her father says something is awoken within yourself that was always there, you just didn't know it -  _and those types are far more dangerous than any were would ever be.)_

(Because in his eyes, Lycanthropy is a disease, an affliction. But these other beings - they're magic. They aren't  _people,_ they're  _beings, creatures, supernatural._ Not preternatural. There's a difference, but her dad at least tries to judge on a case-by-case basis. Her mother, Kate, Gerard - 

Not so much.)

Allison nods then looks out her own window. Doesn't answer.

They're quiet, for a little while. 

(Then, well. They're teenagers in love. What do you think they do?

Something they've done quite a few times before, I'd wager.)

(Something stupid, considering.)

* * *

 "Allison."

"Dad?" Allison asks, turns around from where she'd been walking up the stairs. Jackson had gotten out, and she'd just been about to inform Lydia and Stiles of this fact - quite honestly, she hadn't expected her dad to speak to her quite yet. He had, after all, left all this up to her. Put the responsibility on her shoulders, let her call the shots regarding the kanima. Let her be around Scott if only to gain aid against the Kanima. 

"Something happened." Chris gestures for his daughter to follow him into the kitchen, and she does. Wary, Allison stands across the counter from her father. "What is it?" She asks, and he - sighs, pinches his forehead in frustration between his fingers. "Your mother - was bitten." He admits, and Allison  _stares._

"Oh." She says, and then; "How - by, by whom?"

"Derek Hale," Chris says heavily and Allison - blinks. "Unprovoked?" She asked, bewildered. "I mean - that doesn't exactly... sound like him." 

Allison hesitated. Chris zeroed in on that, focused on it so quickly that it almost gave Allison whiplash. "You're not certain."

"I don't know him that well," Allison says. "But all the people he's bitten - it's been consented to."

Not that Allison thinks it wasn't manipulative or underhanded, the way he went about it - but that won't help her right now. So she doesn't say that.

"Get his side of things," Chris says. "Victoria won't tell me much. Just that he attacked her."

Allison doesn't hesitate - this is a step forward, Allison knows, her father actually looking for both sides to a story. Because even if she thinks that he tries to judge on a case-by-case basis, it's a biased case with weighted evidence and usually ends with his gun to the forehead of some supernatural being.

Allison isn't ignorant of this. Her dad - he's an Argent. They're not exactly known for being fair.

Allison's an Argent too. But that does not define her, and she doesn't want it to define her Dad, either. 

"Okay." Allison nods - she leaves the house, despite the time, then and there, because she doesn't want to give her dad time to make his mind up regardless of not knowing everything.

Due Process. Everyone has a right to it, Allison thinks. Otherwise, a lot of innocent people will end up dead. And Derek, at least in this case - Allison prays that he is innocent because if he isn't, it's likely that her Dad will never loosen up his views ever again.

And Allison can't risk that. 

* * *

 Lydia senses his presence. Out the window; on her bed; leading her down the stairs - she hears him, she does -  _'the worm moon'_ _'resurrection'_

...  _' **Immune'.**_

Lydia grasps that.  _Immune. Beautiful. Strong. Talented. **Intelligent.**_

_I will get out of this._

_I'm Lydia Martin. In the end, I'll be fine. I always am._

**_I will make it so._ **

* * *

~~~~A week passes. Stiles has been sentenced to pseudo-literal house arrest by his dad, the actual Sheriff, and so Stiles is actually stuck in his house under threat of law.

Not fun. Stiles doesn't recommend it. Especially when being stuck inside the house renders him useless to the ghost taking up space inside his brain, and when said ghost constantly visits you to - well, just be annoying, Stiles guesses, it makes things -  _oh,_ one hundred times worse.

But that's beside the point. Stiles doesn't say anything to him and placates him with games of chess, so - it's fine. 

The point is that - yet again, Stiles doesn't know anything. It's Wednesday, so technically it's actually been a week and two days, but semantics. Scott hasn't visited because, well, Kanima, hello, and Stiles assumes the same for everyone else. Except for Lydia, who complains to him over email about her mother keeping her home after their visit to the old Hale House - although she's being allowed back to school for the time being as Natalie's paranoia has 'died down', so to speak.

Stiles doesn't think of it as paranoia, really, but whatever. Lydia can think what she wants to about that. 

Stiles sits there, scratching his head figuratively and literally - thinking about the Kanima's master, and who it might be.

* * *

Scott bursts into Stiles's room. "It's Matt." He says. 

Stiles stands - immediate, walks over to his friend and frowns at him. "Matt?" He asks tone of voice hard and demanding.  _They can't afford to be wrong._  "You certain?"

"Yeah." Scott nods. "But I don't - I don't have any reason why he's getting Jackson to kill the people on the swim team."

"How'd you-?" Stiles starts and Scott starts replying before he can finish - "Lydia poisoned everyone with wolfsbane at her party. Not - only a couple people showed, but we managed to convince Jackson to invite a couple people who ended up inviting more out of pity - anyway, Matt got thrown in and he called Jackson to save him, which could only work if-"

"If Matt's the master," Stiles finishes for him, nods and spins around to his table - grabs his phone and dials his dad. 

"We don't have any evidence." Scott says. 

"I know," Stiles replies - tone grim, a little defeated. "But we're running out of time."

Stiles doesn't say anything about Peter's ghost - doesn't tell Scott he's standing in the doorway, doesn't tell Scott Lydia likely brought him back tonight so how that's still a thing he's no clue - Stiles just dials his dad and waits out the tone, waits and waits and then - 

"Dad, we think we know who it is." 

His Dad takes him seriously - the way he always does when Stiles speaks in that way; tone flat and serious and calm, so,  _so_ calm.

"I'll be right there," Noah tells him, and then the call breaks off.

* * *

 

"Just give me some more  _time,_ " Allison says desperately, scrambling through the forest towards the Hale House whilst desperately trying to keep a hold of her phone, pressing it closer to her ear as the static grows and her father's voice gets more and more distant and broken up as if that will help anything.

"It's been a week. How have you not found him in a week?" Chris demands, and he's just as desperate.

Neither wants Victoria to die. She means too much to the both of them. 

"She's set on it, Allison," Chris says - still desperate, still cold and unfeeling in tone, and Allison hates that - his ability to sound so uncaring. Covets it, envies it with a wholehearted jealousy. 

It'd be so much easier to be able to pretend - even to yourself - that you just don't  _care._

(At least, she thinks so. Blood - blood everywhere; on her hands, down her top, and she tried, tried so,  _so hard,_ but there was nothing she could do to save him. Stiles' fate was sealed, and even if its stupid, Allison thinks that perhaps if she'd been better, she could have done more. The same can be said now - Allison wishes she had more time, that she could talk to her mother - Allison doesn't want to blame Derek, but he's made himself so hard to find. And Allison needs to find him, or she's failed to save someone's life. Again.)

(Stiles is alive. But it's no life he's living. A fear of what he might be, of what is happening to him... if anything's even _real_ - she doesn't envy it. And in a way, Allison almost blames herself.)

"Gerard is crying for blood," He warns. "And I feel similarly about this."

"We don't know the whole story!" Allison tries, yet again. "He may be a werewolf but there's an important part you're all missing -  _were. Man._ Human. He's got as much right to defend himself as anyone else does."

"Allison," Chris says, serious. "No matter what, Derek is the reason your mother is -"

There's a pause. Short, almost missable, but Allison's learned the art of picking up on her father's hidden cues. He's uncertain, scared and upset because his wife, Allison's mother, is about to throw her life away over being a werewolf. About to abandon her child, her husband, her family.

Allison knows Scott hates being a werewolf. That he'd give anything to be human again. But he wouldn't  _kill_ himself over it. Allison - she can't feel pity or sympathy for her mother right now, only anger.

Victoria's going to  _abandon_ her. Allison can't look past that - look past how  _selfish_ she's being.

"Just -  _please,_ ** _Dad,_** I just need more time,  ** _please - "_**

Allison's past any sort of pride, now. She begs, plain and clear, and allows the tears that have been pricking at her eyes since she found out this  _stupid_ rule, lets them drip down her face and cloud her vision, lets them make her journey more hazardous - trips over a tree root, stumbles and falls but scrambles to a stand and  _keeps going **she's almost there -**_

"I'm sorry," Chris says - genuine. There's a hitch to his breath and the  _ever so_ slightest crack in his voice, a rush of emotion in such a small thing - Allison  _sobs, begs -_ " **Please,** dad,  _no -"_

And the call cuts out. Allison falls to her knees, and sobs freely. 

They were  _fine_ until Gerard showed up. Her mother might've been a bit strict on the Scott front, sure, but she hadn't been advocating murder quite as strongly as she's been doing recently. Since Gerard showed up, Allison's had nothing but grief. And now he's using her mother's  _suicide_ as a way to further his agenda, and Allison  _hates him._

If he wasn't here, they could have convinced her mother not to kill herself. 

Allison - Allison  _hates him._

**_She wants him dead._ **

* * *

 

"- is enough for a warrant." The Sheriff finishes. "Look, Stiles - I'm glad you've gotten all this figured out, and Scott, also, thank you, but I need you two to promise you'll at least try not to get involved."

"Noted," Stiles said. "Besides; I can't exactly leave the house - thanks, dad - so I'm literally incapable of getting involved unless Matt just - shows up unannounced."

The Sheriff grimaced. "You know what," He says, "It might be best if you aren't alone."

"You think?" Stiles asks rhetorically, tone dry. 

"Let's go." The Sheriff nods to the two teens. "We'll need you to file all this, and Scott - you'll need to call up your mom to come to the Station."

"Alright," Scott nods, retrieves his phone from his pocket. "On it."

* * *

 

 Lydia only hears about what happened at the Station and with Allison a few days later, courtesy of Allison for both run-downs.

Lydia pauses in her perusal of the text she's translated so many times now that she can read the original without needing to translate it as if Archaic Latin were a language she was fluent in, rather than one she's just very good at (now, that isn't to say Lydia isn't fluent in Classical Latin - but that got dull after a while, so perhaps she's actually not fluent in that any longer since it's been a while since she used it last) - and looks up at Allison after she's finished retelling the events of Wednesday.

"Well, I spent the night resurrecting Peter Hale. Count yourself lucky you didn't make it to the Hale House that night." Lydia says, turns the page and starts translating the next paragraph in her head.

_The Kanima seeks a master. The Kanima is an abomination. There is no cure for being a Kanima that is known to us (at the current time)._

Lydia added the parenthesis. She thinks, though it isn't there, that that clarification is needed.

_It's been thousands of years. Your knowledge is outdated. **I will find a way.**_

"... that's what you get out of that?" Allison asks, and Lydia looks up, looks across - and, yes, Allison looks hurt. 

"I'm sorry about your mother dying," Lydia says, truthfully, reaches out a hand and takes Allison's. "But I can't say I'm sorry that Victoria Argent abandoned her family because she got a little bitten."

Allison stares across at Lydia, mouth twisted and eyes shiny with unspent tears, and Lydia sighs, puts down her kindle. She proceeds to drag Allison forwards into a hug, lies them down on their sides curled in towards each other. "You're my best friend," Lydia says. "And you've lost your mother. Your Dad is compartmentalizing and won't talk to you about it, and your Grandad is trying to get you to murder someone for him. I'm  _here,_ okay? You've got no other shoulder to cry on right now except your own, and I want you to know that that's  _never the case._ I'm  _here,_ Ally. And you need to grieve."

Allison's face scrunches up a little more, but Lydia can't see her reaction because the other girl leans in, and cries.

Just cries. 

Lydia pulls her closer and rubs circles into her back, and the two fall asleep, collectively exhausted from their ordeals over the last few days.

* * *

A week has passed since Matt attacked the Station - since he knocked out Stiles and the Sheriff and shot Scott and was the reason Melissa now knows about the supernatural. 

A week has passed since he died. Allison thinks she knows who killed him - because Lydia's been talking as much as she can about the man being back since she found out that she could, now.

Or maybe not. Perhaps someone else killed Matt - the very same person Allison was... well, plotting against, to put it lightly. 

The plan was simple. Today wasn't supposed to be anything much - Allison was to go to the game with Lydia - was to cheer on Scott (and Jackson, at Lydia's behest) and Stiles, she was to enjoy herself.

When she got home... Allison's mood went further down the drain than it already was. Putting on a nice face for your friends and the public is - well, it's just something that Allison has to do now. But at home? Allison didn't think she'd have to deal too much, aside from the constant need to hide her true feelings towards Gerard.

Allison still hasn't talked to Derek - she doesn't particularly want to - but she did talk to Scott. And she trusts Scott far more than a letter Gerard gave her that he told her to burn and share with nobody else.

So yes. When Allison gets home straight after the game as they were all ordered - while a search for Stiles was underway - Allison was horribly worried for the boy that was now her friend, not just her boyfriend's friend and her best friend's not-so-secret admirer, and to hear something like shouting from the basement - 

Allison couldn't quite recognize the voices, but she went down anyway. Opened the door, quietly, started to take out her small crossbow that she kept at all times in whatever bag she was carrying - 

Allison couldn't help the pause she made at seeing what she saw. Her next reaction - knee-jerk and immediate - was to pull the trigger.

The bolt slammed into the back of Gerard's knee joint, slammed home  _hard,_ and he went down like a bag of potatoes. 

"Dad!" Allison cried out at the top of her lungs, horrified, and rushed forwards to collapse to her knees next to Stiles 

He winced up at her, grinned weakly. 

"Yo, Ally." He says as if he hadn't just been in the process of having his face hurt in deliberately obvious ways, "Nice of you to drop by. Mind if you turn off the electricity?" 

Stiles winces as he stands and gestures to Boyd and Erica, who are tied to the ceiling. Allison looks on, horrified. If she'd accepted Gerard's offer of going on a 'hunt' instead of claiming tiredness, would she have been able to stop this? To help them?

Allison rushes to turn off the electricity, and after he does so, Stiles unties Boyd and Erica from the ceiling. 

Her dad chooses this moment to come down to the basement, gun ready.

"Woah!" Stiles yelps, "Don't point that at me, please!"

Chris frowns at Stiles and then - registers that its Stiles; notes the way his face is marred and then looks over at Boyd and Erica, then turns to his father, who is on the floor - likely unconscious from when he hit his head on the landing. 

Chris catalogs the bolt in his leg and Allison's crossbow and simply stares.

Stiles finishes getting Boyd and Erica down, cautiously, and the four teenagers stand there in the center of the basement, as Chris blocks the exit, gun still in hand, still slightly raised.

"What," He says slowly, "Is going on here?"

* * *

Stiles, and by extension the other teens (who back him up, for reasons he doesn't know but is glad of) convince Chris not to drag Gerard and Stiles to the Sheriff's station. 

"We can say it was a fugue state and that Allison found me on her way home," Stiles says. "Which is gonna make me house-bound again for sure, but its better than getting Gerard and his people after my Dad, okay?" Stiles says, and Allison and Erica give better reasons while Boyd puts forth his agreement.

"Look, dad." Allison says, "Locking up Gerard isn't going to help. He's still the Kanima's master -" Because Peter had told Derek of this for reasons Allison and, for that matter, Derek, isn't sure of, and she didn't have any better evidence to go on so she'll take it - "And we need to know what he's up to. Scott has a plan, and I know what it is, and I know it won't kill him. Once Scott's plan is through, I reserve the right as the next Argent matriarch to decide his fate."

Chris looks at his daughter - seventeen going on adulthood already, and thinks that this is the life he was trying to avoid giving her. 

"Alright." He says, finally. "It's your call."

Stiles nods, Boyd and Erica flee, and Allison takes Stiles home after helping him clean out his wounds and fix them up a little. 

* * *

 

Lydia shows up at the station, and Stiles isn't sure what to say. 

"I'm stuck here." He says. "I can't drive you there, you won't make it."

"Then get your dad to drive us so you aren't stuck here," Lydia demands, and Stiles - the thought of Gerard and what his people would do to his dad flashes across Stiles' brain, the thought of what the Kanima might do to him, paralyze him, kill him - makes him step forward, eyes hard.

"No," He says, cool and cold, and there - in his peripheral vision is a smirking, young Peter - but when he turns, the man is gone again, and Stiles scowls, rubs at his head and paces.

"Stiles -" Lydia says, tone a little more sympathetic than she's ever really been - she reaches out and places a hand on his shoulder and turns him towards herself. " _Please."_

Stiles closes his eyes and nods. "Fine," He says - ignores the echoey, mocking laughter from the ghost in his head. "I'll drive you."

The two sneak out the Station and get in Lydia's mom's car - the one Lydia drove here - and Stiles doesn't know why she wanted him to drive her (maybe she was worried about going into a fugue state on the way if she went alone?) - but he does - puts the car into gear and slams on the gas.

* * *

Once it's all said and done, Chris takes Allison and Gerard out of Beacon Hills in the van, takes them a ways out from the town proper and then stops them, pulls the car to the side of the road and gets out.

Chris puts a gun to Gerard's head and walks him into the treeline. Allison follows.

Once they find a suitable clearing, the three stop in their collective tracks. 

"What are we going to do, Allison?" Chris asks his daughter. 

 _We hunt those who hunt us._ He thinks.

Allison never liked that motto, she does indeed want to change it.

Scott always advocates that they don't need to kill. That it would make them as bad as the bad guys themselves. 

Allison agrees, normally. She agrees now, and in truth, she knows, knows in her heart that she will regret this.

"You got the bite, Grandpa," Allison says, cocks her head to the side. 

"Isn't there a rule about that?"

Her dad is wearing gloves. Her grandad is not.

"By the way, dad," Allison says, "We're abolishing that rule later, once we revise the hunter's code."

Chris nods. 

He stands in front of Gerard, places the gun under his chin - stares his father in the eye, holds his breath -

And pulls the trigger.

After all - isn't this what he advocated for Victoria to do? Allison is only allowing what Gerard would want, after all. Giving him the same treatment as he gave her mother.

Allison closes her eyes. She will change things. But for now - now, she'll focus on the knowledge that this - this _evil human being_... he will never harm an innocent again.

* * *

 

"What is it?" Isaac asks Derek, once they're back to the Hale house the next day - but he doesn't immediately get an answer from Derek, and nor does he get one from Peter.

It takes a moment, but Derek says. "... A Threat."

Isaac looks to the strange triskelion carved into their door - and a chill passes over him. 

"From who?"

Isaac doesn't get an answer. It'll take another few weeks until he does.

* * *

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holllllyyyyyy Hellllllll I did it! I got this done! I'm kinda proud ngl, yayyyy!   
> Anway, lol, I needed to wrap up season two, so here's the end in one fell swoop. I'll focus on finishing up at least RRT(AWC) before continuing this series any farther, as I appear to lack the ability to keep up with as many multi-chapter fics as I've currently got all at once.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hey people! I really need to stop starting things before finishing other things. This is my second project in the Teen Wolf fandom, and I've got like five ongoing on fanfiction.net, and some I haven't posted and have only part of one or just one chapter of completed.
> 
> Yikes.
> 
> So yeah, I guess this is my take on things? Eh, I'm not certain. Oh well. Here you are, I guess.
> 
> (This turned out very differently from when it was in my head, just so you know. I've never written things quite how I planned them.)
> 
> Cesca, out.


End file.
